


Making The Connection

by JessamyGriffith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink, Angst, Backstory, Developing Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Pining, S1 compliant, The Blind Banker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 96,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only started with phone sex.... Then it became something more.</p><p>Sherlock is on detox, and bored. He calls a phone sex line to test a hypothesis. He gets John. Sherlock is intrigued, and calls back several times. But the experiment isn't going quite how Sherlock predicted...</p><p>Story begins prior to 'A Study in Pink'.<br/>Spoilers for first season.<br/>Not actually crack, despite the original prompt on the kinkmeme.</p><p>***Abandoned. I will not finish this, so read at your own risk. Apologies for this, but the muse departed long ago.***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on this prompt from the SherlockBBC_fic meme:
> 
> Prompt: Sherlock is coming off his high and everything is dull and boring to the point where he calls a sex hotline.
> 
> He gets John.
> 
> He calls the same time every three days, just to talk- to see how his day is and how his sisters drinking habits are.  
> Imagine Sherlock`s surprise when he hears John`s voice in a local cafe.
> 
> it's him
> 
> Note - the story isn't as cracky as the prompt might suggest. Nor is it quite an AU. I mean, it WILL be AU because I am not taking the staory into Season Two's timeline. Other than that, it is S1 compliant.
> 
> If you desire to read this story in the rough, (formatting and titling errors abound) it can be found on LJ sherlockBBC kinkmeme here:
> 
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=49734454#t49734454
> 
> and the rest is on the Overflow post here:
> 
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8300.html?thread=60749676#t60749676  
> \-------------------------  
> EDIT - Some lovely people who enjoyed the story have made some fanart for Chapter 10. NSFW, spoiler-y for Chapter 10.
> 
> WhisperElmwood's sketch of HawkJohn and Sherlock (She says unfinished but worth linking nonetheless! It's lovely!) at: http://whisperfanworks.livejournal.com/16729.html  
> grumpyjumper's painting (with such vibrant colours and iconographic composition! So great) of John and Sherlock at: http://grumpyjumpers.livejournal.com/3454.html

**Monday, December 14th, 2009**

 

  
  
Sherlock peeled off the used buprenorphine patch from his thin forearm and flicked it irritably at the lamp at the foot of the settee.  It missed and landed unnoticed with flutter between the cushions. He tapped at the laptop keyboard, fingers flexing with annoyance. Compared to the euphoria of heroin, the patch was a pale imitation. God, he could use a distraction, any distraction. But he'd given his word to Mycroft, and the tedious course of detox was just about over. Not to mention Lestrade had sworn not to allow Sherlock the fun of any new cases if he were caught using again. Those two unsolved suicides had some promise, even if Lestrade was being cagey about the details. Meanwhile, here he lay. The great detective – still in his dressing gown on the settee at three in the afternoon, on the inside track to going spare from the monotony of life.

  
 _If I went mad, would the inspector even notice any difference?_ Sherlock wondered in a black humour. Certainly neither Donovan nor Anderson would. One part of Sherlock's mind played through a whimsical fantasy of what he might do to Anderson if he ever allowed himself the freedom of inhibited impulse. Another part pondered whether a plea of insanity would get him off murder charges, or the fact that Anderson's very existence had pushed Sherlock over the edge.  _My Lord, it was self-defence. You must see that the general intelligence quotient of the world has gone up by 1.3456 percent since his death._ Another part of his brain weighed the probability of Lestrade's team bringing him to justice if he ever did decide to kill someone.  _Odds - 1,563,976 to one chance of success. Multiply odds against by five if elder brother deployed. As if I would bring him in - he'd find a way to stick his nose in._ Yet another part of his consciousness was just circling in a idiot atonal singsong, bored bored _bored_ bored BORED

Sherlock scowled at the monitor screen and refreshed the website. It looked like the advice from  **tall-dark &clever** had been shot down again. In the weeks of enforced boredom he had been haunting a few message boards devoted to relationship help in an effort to better understand people and their motives for murder a bit more.  _Love - the most common motive. Predictable._ Research of this type was necessary, but so annoying and nebulous – emotional attachments were so irrational, unlike the precision of lab work. He quite preferred lab work. Later. When his hands were less shaky.

But these message boards - unbelievable. For amusement as much as research, he'd set up a few accounts, some in for earnest inquiry, others merely to provoke reactions. No one appreciated his candid assessments of their relationships. The drivel they spouted as motives for their behaviour both amazed and baffled him. One user,  **kittypink** , had suggested to another hopeful trying to catch a man's attention that the best way to attract him was to present yourself as kind yet mysterious, and as attractively attired as possible.

'After you are married and sure of his love, then you can reveal your true self bit by bit!'  **kittypink** had advised.

 _Yes, when he is emotionally and financially invested,_ Sherlock thought. Such an amalgam of deceitful ploys were why Lestrade and his squad were kept so busy. 'My Lord, she's not the woman I married! It was justifiable murder!'

But   **tall-dark &clever**'s reply to **kittypink** had been utterly repudiated. All he had said was, ‘You should not distort yourself to attract others, you are only lying to yourself if you do.’

For this obvious statement he had drawn message-board cat-calls, hisses, and cries of ‘Oh, I suppose you like natural women then, with no artifice or make-up? Who's lying to himself? You think we don't know what men are really looking for?’ There was also a pithy, ‘Piss off!’ from  **kittypink**.

Sherlock grimaced. He didn't know what men in general liked, but he knew what  _he_  liked. Not women, particularly after reading some of the flames he'd received. Reflecting on this, Sherlock mused that he ought to have known the thread he'd started would have been controversial. It read:

 **-** ** **Truth in Relationships** ** **. In order for your relationship to be successful, it is self-evident that you be as forthcoming as possible before entering a commitment. Too often people who have some character defect enter a relationship without disclosing it to their partner. This is a mistake. If something is not right about you — you believe or have a bad trait or character fault — it will come out eventually. Be honest from the beginning** **.-**

Sherlock's eyes scanned through some of the comments. There were a few agreeing with his stance, but they were buried under an avalanche of indignation. He was called a misogynist, a misanthrope, a Nazi – for suggesting that honesty at the outset was essential to a relationship's success? For God's sake, he was being accused of  _trolling_ _._  Ironic, when he was only expounding his own honest views on the matter. Why were these people so blind? He needed more data.

Sherlock tugged up the shoulder of the dressing gown and considered **kittypink** 's assertions. Does the wilful misrepresentation of one's self actually increase attractiveness/potential for acquiring new partners? Sherlock hummed and tapped a long finger on laptop case. Perhaps. He had used it as a ploy himself to get information from suspects. When it came to sexual partners, he'd much prefer, would demand, nothing but the truth.

A memory drifted through his mind - floppy brown hair, the scent of expensive cologne, a face twisting in mockery as posh accents derided Sherlock. _Freak_. Annoyed, he pushed the memory away and moved the cursor to the Start button to power down the computer. He'd wasted enough time on the boards. He could stand only so much obtuseness in one day.

Bored. He needed a new drug - no, that avenue was barred. A case would be good but that too was out of his reach. A new problem. An experiment. Or...

His finger slipped on the track pad and the cursor jerked, hovering over a blinking ad. Sherlock paused, caught. There. An experiment? The ad was obviously meant to target the lonely people who frequented this forum. BlazingPhoneSexx.com - hideous name. The font itself was off-putting. Still... Phone sex. The most ephemeral of relationships, with the expectation of physical release bought and paid for, no emotional attachment and no chance of depth. Also, in all probability the most sanitary of the sex industries.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Time for some empirical data. **kittypink** claimed that one needed to represent one's self falsely in order to propagate a relationship. Could a phone sex operator, creating a false impression meant to cater to Sherlock's fantasies, actually evoke an honest response from him, physical or otherwise? Were all those wittering females on the relationship website right? He clicked the ad. Damn - of course they would require credit card information, but his accounts had been frozen, thanks to Mycroft's well-intentioned interference. How -? Ah, yes.

Sherlock set the laptop aside and stood. A quick delve into the inner pocket of his Belstaff produced the credit card he'd swiped from Lestrade the last time he'd been annoyed with the inspector.

 _There_. He threw himself into his leather chair and snatched the computer up again, a pleased hum escaping him. With no compunction whatsoever for what Lestrade would think the next time he got his credit bill, Sherlock entered Lestrade's name, age, and credit information. Done. Now, who to talk to? He clicked to the personal information pages of the operators. His lips thinned. None of the pseudo-pubescent girls and overly-groomed young men posing next to descriptions of their assets would work. Too much information. He didn't want to know what they looked like. Not that he supposed the pictures were actual representations. His brow lifted as he read on. Defintely not. He wanted an experience untainted by presupposition. 

Impulsively he clicked through to the “Matchmaker Room” and hit Connect.


	2. Initium - The Beginning

_Why was nothing ever simple?_ Sherlock fumed, tugging a hand through his wild curls. So many hoops to jump through before he even got to a phone sex operator. "Connect' had brought him to another page with a phone number. He'd called, verified the hapless Lestrade's credit card information (again! How many times did he have to repeat this?) and was now speaking to a certain Melissa, his 'matchmaker.'

'What kind of fantasy artist would you like to speak with?” she purred, throaty contralto inviting. Mm. South London accent, more up-scale than Sherlock had been expecting.

Sherlock paused, a line appearing between dark brows. Sex was not an area he routinely bothered with, much less fantasized about. Better to ask: what kind of person would bore him the least?

"An intelligent one, if you have one. No, never mind," Sherlock said. "I have low expectations of your staff's abilities in that regard. An  _educated_  one.”

"Educated.” Melissa's voice was bemused now.

"Yes, university-educated would be good, but postgraduate would be preferable. If you have such a person."

"Sir, there are several artists working for us that fit that description.”

"Oh.” Sherlock's brows rose. He'd made a crass assumption. Stupid of him _._

"But your request is a touch... unusual. Would you care to tell me about physical types you like, or personality?” she hinted.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said. "The operator and I are never going to meet - unless you are running an entirely different set-up than your website advertises, in which case I'd mention the anti-prostitution laws and perhaps ask a few questions for research purposes. The point is this: I will never be able to verify the operator's actual physique as compared with his or her verbal description. I don't care. Can we speed this up?”

The voice was losing that sexy edge now, becoming a shade more brusque. "What? Why-ever would you want to...  I beg your pardon. What about age?”

"I repeat: irrelevant. Were you  _listening_  at all just now?”

"Voice type?”

Sherlock paused, arrested. Did he have a voice type he preferred? He'd never considered it. Best go for the average. "Normal.”

"Any scenario you would like to have?”

"I thought you were professionals,” he said sarcastically. "I mean, for 91p a minute surely one of your  _artists_  can improvise.”

"Of course, sir.” Her voice had gotten quite chilly. "Any final requests?”

Sherlock's mouth widened into a smile, though the expression could hardly be called pleasant. "Male.”

"Please hold, sir.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers in a quick-paced violin fingering pattern as the holding music played.

 

\-------

  
 _So this is life after Afghanistan_ , thought John.

A featureless bare bedsit with no pictures, beige carpeting, dim and devoid of any comfort  _(_ _no comfort to be found here, not for him_ _)_. Curtains muting the light coming in. John can't be bothered pulling them back any more.

He could feel himself blurring at the edges, the effort of just  _being_  wearing at him. He was blending in. He wonders - if he lay back on his plain bed and just let go -  _no thoughts no sensation -_ would he simply be absorbed into the room itself? Sandy hair/desert tanned skin/oatmeal jumper/blue eyes already halfway there, just  _fading_ , the colour leaching away until there is only the colourless outline of John Watson denting the sheets. And then nothing.

Empty life, devoid of contact. What was left of Doctor John Watson? All the colours he saw any more were bright flashes of memory, nightmares in the night – his dark badge of honour from the war. In comparison, even the busy clamour of London seemed muted, the people he met in person only shadows. They might speak to him, but the words brushed past, fluttering. He wasn't able to grasp them. He could feel, but he couldn't quite touch. John was disconnected, and he was beginning to think he might never find his way back.

There was always the gun. A bit of colour might brighten the place up. No.  _No_ _._ Never that. Don't even think it. Don't even  _think_  about thinking it.

And this day, like every other day, he forced himself to get up. He stumped into the cold bare kitchenette in his robe to get a mug of tea and something for breakfast, sat at his uncluttered desk and opened his laptop. He did not look at the service pistol at the bottom of the drawer.

The blinking cursor on his blog was hypnotizing. His therapist had recommended this - what the hell did she know? It had no point, had no purpose. Like him. He poked a few keys, tried an experimental phrase – 'Yesterday I talked to some people. I didn't actually see them in person but they listened to me as if I were everything.' John rubbed his eyes, tired and faintly disgusted  _(_ _nothing_ _real_ _ever happens to me_ _)_  and deleted it, closing the laptop with a click.

 


	3. Fundationes - Foundations

Another day of therapy with Ella in Russell Square. John had missed last Wednesday's appointment and his appointment had been moved to today to make up for the lost one. He hated it.

As per usual, the time spent talking about his problems was pointless. John would call it a waste of time but these days he has so very _much_  time – he could afford to be careless with it. The woman was honestly trying to help, no matter how misguided she seemed to John. In spite of her efforts it felt as though he were being wrapped in a airless box - being sealed away from the common run of man.

John grimaced at the pain in his leg as he made his way back to his bedsit. Psychosomatic, according to Ella. As if he couldn't guess that, the bullet had hit his shoulder, he was doctor, for God's sake. Well, time to get back to his experiment. Perhaps tonight was the night he would find something real, something that would re-connect him to a normal life.

The money helped, of course. Though if you'd asked him a year back where he'd thought he be, never,  _never_  would he have had the imagination to come up with, “Staying in a cheap flat in London, mentally done-over from the war, and working as a gay phone-sex operator.”

Never.

Oddly enough, it had been Lizzy McKane who had put the idea in his head. She'd been a CMT he'd met in Afghanistan, a short, cheerful snub-nosed girl with corkscrew sandy hair she kept scraped back in tight braids. She wasn't conventionally pretty, but she had deft hands, a gurgling laugh, and a teeth-gritted determination to do her part, finish her tour and go back to medical school.

"I want to be in Paediatrics,” she told John one afternoon over a canteen lunch, “but I need to have some serious dosh saved up first.”

"And you joined the RAMC for money?” John smiled at her in disbelief.

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Don't be daft, of course it wasn't for the money! Not completely. I wanted to join, my Da was in the Forces as well. Bit of a family tradition. The experience here will certainly help me in the General Surgery training, but let's not forget the CV!”

"Ah, yes. Valiant heroine of the war in Afghanistan, experienced medical technician. Any hospital would be lucky to get you.” John's eyes crinkled.

She grinned. “Don't I know it! Still, it'll be rough, my folks aren't what you'd call well-off. It's not the fees, it's the living expenses. My little stint here is helping though.”

"How will you manage, then?” He lifted his mug to his lips for a sip of tea.

"Oh, the same way I did when I first moved down to London – phone sex.”

John's drink abruptly went down the wrong way, and he sputtered. Lizzy hooted with laughter.

"Your face! Oh, you should see it!”

"Are you -? You're serious,” he said after he'd regained control and wiped his streaming eyes. She leaned back in her chair and grinned unabashedly at him.

"Not shy about this, are you, Watson? Or don't you think I could do it?”

"I think my head's splitting apart thinking about it. Really?" John placed his hands on the table and leaned in, curiousity piqued. "What – what was it like?”

"What was it like? Oh, do you mean...” she dropped her voice to a throaty purr, “Doctor Watson... you want to know what I'm wearing under this dirty, dusty uniform? Oh, let me think... well, I knew I'd be having lunch with you today, so first I pulled out my red lace thong – I love the way it feels between my legs, pressing so tightly... and then I tried on my blue high-cut silk bikini bottoms – they feel like skin, so _smooth_ and cool to the touch when I rub them – wouldn't you like to rub them, Doctor? But I wasn't sure which a brave handsome man like you would like best, so in the end I wore noth - “

"All right then!” John  cut across desperately. His ears were hot, and he could feel the blush working its way up his neck. He suddenly laughed. “All right, fine. You must have made a mint.”

She rocked a hand, considering. “Oh, depends on the dispatch company – some of them can be right crooks! But sure, once you get a clientèle base worked up... “

"A clientèle base?” John couldn't stop smiling. This was one of the most interesting conversations he'd had in months. "Sounds like a cold-blooded business affair.”

"It is,” she assured him, playing with the tip of her braid. "It's work. It could get really tedious as well. Same thing, over and over. 'Tell me what you're wearing. How big are your tits?' Even with all the different kinks you were requested, it could get boring. My specialty was oral, spanking, BDSM and nurse role play - yes, there are phone sex specialities!" she tossed at John, who was pressing his mouth hard with his entire hand to control his expression. His shoulders were shaking slightly. "But I could fill in for school-girl, as well as giantess fantasy.”

At the last John  couldn't hold back his shout of laughter, attracting the attention of a few people nearby. Lizzy, who couldn't have been over five foot four inches, joined in. He rubbed his eyes, and smiled helplessly at the giggling young woman.

"Must have been intersting.”

"Well – like I said, it could be repetitive. But, yeah, there were moments." She smiled in fond reminiscence. “You had to be on your toes with some – use a fair bit of imagination. And with some you practically had to mind-read what they wanted, they could hardly say. Embarrassed, or terminally socially awkward. For a good session, you need a bit of give and take, some questions and answers.  You have to listen for the cues, and use them to build the fantasy.”  She eyed him speculatively. “You'd probably be good at it."

"Me! But..."

"Oh, there are male phone sex workers, they usually work the gay community, though there are a few female callers. But what I meant was, you have that doctorly empathy. You listen. People want to talk to you... look at me, I haven't talked about this since I got in! You just... people trust you."

"Thank you. I think. But I don't know that I'll ever using my listening skills for phone-sex work."

"Wouldn't be just your listening skills. Your voice is all right, that'd work. You're confident. How's your imagination?"

John shook his head, eyes crinkled in amusement. Lizzy rolls her eyes. "Oh, all right then! But you're missing out!"

"How so?"

"Ah." She sighs. “Well, once in a while, you would get a call – not just a sex one. Maybe for comfort, or to flirt. To talk, or sometimes they would make a confession. You got to know something intimate and real. Those calls... " She looked wistful for a moment, seeing something beyond the canteen's walls, face softened. John feels a pang of envy for whatever vision she sees, or hears. "With those ones – you felt like you really made a connection."

 

\------------------------

 

Sitting. Chair set at right angles to the desk. Laptop on the desk, open, but not to be used for typing. The noise of the keyboard might be distracting to a caller, John knew this. Pad and pencil for notes during calls. Glass of water within reach to the left. The mobile Harry gave him, connected to its charger and lying next to the computer.

Eyes closed, just breathing, feeling the space of the empty room around him. Hands resting on the desk, the left trembling slightly. Grain of the wood, slightly raised under his fingertips. Draw in, draw in –  _y_ _ou know you are in there, John Watson. Time to see if you can reach out._ _If anyone can reach you._

The alarm went off on the mobile – blue eyes snapped open, and a finger swipe turned it off. He picked up the Bluetooth headset, pressed the button for eight seconds until it beeped. The headset was placed on his head, the mouthpiece adjusted to maximal position. He touched ‘Search for Bluetooth Device’ on the mobile and waited a moment.

_Waiting._

\---------------------

A message window popped up on his computer.

 

  *   
Afternoon, John! [MelissaXX]



  * Hi M. What have you got? [JWatson]



  * Talking to him now. Hard case. [MelissaXX]



  * How so? [JWatson]



  * Wants educated and/or intelligent. {MelissaXX]



  * Really. [JWatson]



  * ...He's on hold now. Right then. He doesn't care about anything except education and voice, a normal voice. [MelissaXX]



  * LOL you give me the interesting ones. [JWatson]



  * Also he wants a man. Posh voice. Snotty. Bit of a creep. Sorry not to be more help here! [MelissaXX]



  * It's all right. Anything else? [JWatson]



  * By our records, he's a first timer. Card checks out – he's authorized for ten minutes to an hour for this first call. [MelissaXX]



  * My character? [JWatson]



  * Doesn't care. Might be gay, can't begin to guess his motives. Just use the usual. [MelissaXX]



  * Hardwin, then. Caller code? [JWatson]



  * G.L.48. Sorry about this, John! Good luck :). [MelissaXX]



  * Thanks, M. Appreciate it. [JWatson]



  * Putting him through now. [MelissaXX]




 

The phone rang, vibrating against the desk. John took a breath, closed his eyes briefly. Touched the button to answer.

 

**_Connected._**


	4. Confluentem - The Confluence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson, phone sex worker, takes his fisrt caller of the day, Sherlock, who is being his usual charming self.

“Hardwin? Really. Is that meant to be a double entendre?”

“...Hello to you, too. No, not on my part. It was assigned to me, if you must know.”

“It's feeble.”

“...Yes. Thanks for that, I agree. What should I call you, then?”

“Oh, not 'What's your name?' I'll play along. In the same theme, then. Call me... Hugh.”

“Theme?”

“False names of Germanic origin. Hardwin. Hugh. You can note that next to my pseudonym.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your pencil, I can hear the scratching. Your audio pick-up is set a bit high, you may want to adjust that for your next call. People might hear untoward things.”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn't aware of that. I can turn it down now.”

“I don't mind. Oh, you've put the pencil down? No, you can take notes, I approve of diligence in one's work.”

“Is that something you like, listening?”

“Mmm. Mildly flirtatious tone, fishing for information. That's more in line with what I was expecting from a sex line.”

“I'm pleased to help you with anything you like. What would you like to talk about?”

“Fishing again, Hardwin.”

“Hoping to catch something, Hugh.”

“Ha! Well then. How does this usually go? 'What are you wearing?' Don't flatter me please, I can tell with a sixty percent rate of accuracy whether someone is telling the truth or not.”

“Even over the phone?”

“In person, it'd be seventy five percent. What are you wearing?”

“Um. Well, brown oxfords, black socks. Blue jeans, a loose fit. A white cotton shirt with a kind of small black plaid pattern on it. A burgundy cardigan, which I've just now realized isn't buttoned correctly. There.”

“Good basic description. Not what I'm used to working with normally, but enough for tantalization.”

“Thanks, I think! What kind of details would you like? Quality? Feel? Scent?”

“Yes.”

“The cardigan was a gift, it's a bit old. The jeans and shirt are relatively new, I got them at Debenham's on sale. The jeans still have that new-clothes stiffness. The shoes – can't remember, sorry. They're a bit scuffed, especially the right one. As for smell – well, laundry soap. I don't use colognes. ”

“Perfect. A plethora of small details, just what I wanted.”

“Are you a policeman then? I feel like I've just been giving a witness description.”

“No, not with the police, though I work with them sometimes. Excellent surmise.”

“It was either that or fashion student. Some people just fancy clothes, or they like to picture who they are talking to.”

“Is that another hint, Hardwin? My interest was a purely intellectual one, though I am creating a mental picture. Physical appearance?”

“Um. Five foot seven, relatively fit, light brown hair and blue eyes. Is this... is this doing anything for you? Tantalizing you?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think. You're smiling. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Yes, yes I am. Now you know everything... “

“Not everything. Aside from knowing you are a modest man in his thirties, conscientious in your attire yet not fashionable. You come from a middle-class family from a small town outside London and are careful with your money. Aside from that, I know almost nothing. You most likely have some kind of leg problem that precludes a normal gait and are ordinary enough in appearance to be difficult to pick out of a crowd. You like quality, but have no personal vanity. In fact, the most interesting thing about you is your false name, and the fact that you are working a phone line.”

“ \- “

“Hardwin?”

“Hugh, you are...  _ alarming. _ ”

“Oh. Did... did I make you uncomfortable? It's not like we will ever meet.”

“No. No, that was amazing. Although I would like to protest that quip about personal vanity. A bloke doesn't need to be stylish to have pride in his appearance.”

“All right, I'll concede the point.”

“And you say you're not with the police?”

“I'm a consultant for them at times. What, why did you snort just then?”

“Oh, just an old joke I heard once. You sure you want to hear? Right then – a 'consultant' is person who likes to con and insult people.”

“...Weirdly enough, that does come under my work description. Especially when I am dealing with certain criminal investigators. Hm. What do you do?”

“My job? ...I'm a nurse.”

“Wrong. Whatever you are, you are not a nurse, or at least not now. Statistically, the ratio of male nurses to female is one to nineteen, so it's a rare career choice. You are working at home at three thirty in the afternoon. You have a bad leg.”

“Hugh.”

“You have a bad leg, assuming you did tell me the truth, and so would be unable to perform your duties. You could have had an accident, or you could be a medical technician invalided home from Afghanistan. ”

“ _ Hugh _ .”

“Of course, with a bad leg, you'd be unable to work many jobs, but you could work some. Instead, you work from home - you are not comfortable among people. Perhaps it's to do with the leg. Also, you need money – to augment a disability pension? Now, the choice of 'fantasy artist' could mean...”

“Hugh. I think we need to stop talking about me. As much as I love listening to an intelligent man talk, there's something I'd like to say. If you'll pardon the interruption.”

“What's that,  _ Hardwin? _ ”

“How much I would like, at this moment, to slide the distal phalanges of my left hand up the anterior aspect of your throat, to just under your mylohyoid, and  _ squeeze _ , restricting respiration through your pharynx, preventing your mandible from moving, and incidentally – you from articulating another word in anything over a whisper. You needn't worry about passing out, my grip isn't that hard, and I am not constricting the carotid or the trachea. That's what I would like, Hugh. You – to be quiet now. Is that  _ understood _ ?”

…

..

.

“Is that understood,  _ Hugh _ ?”

A hoarse thread of sound. “ _ Yes, Hardwin. _ ”


	5. Interlude - Thoughts and Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's thoughts during the call concerning his caller. Sherlock's reaction to John's language.

John's fingers are clenched around the pencil in unconscious imitation of his words. His thoughts during the call:

  


_ Bloody hell, Melissa wasn't understating it at all. _ Bit of a sod. Let's see where this is going. No, not a typical one at all – not responding to the usual overtures. Funny. Observant. What's his kink? Hmm. 

_ What am I wearing? _ Details about clothing – fine. He wants facts? – he doesn't want a fantasy for this, he wants the illusion of reality. Why? 

_ Wait – what? _ How did he guess all that from – never mind. Not important, he obviously gets off in some fashion from information – not just having it, but sharing it.  _ Clever. _ Likes others to know it, too – that's fine. Thinks a bit too much. Asked for an intelligent man – no, not just intelligent, educated. There's a key there.

My job?  _ Not his business _ – yes, a nurse, essential education is similar. How – my leg?  _ Disability _ ? NO. That – that is going too far. He can't possibly know -

No, John, don't let him get to you, he's here for something, you are here to provide it. No point in anger, he is asking for –  _ assistance. _ You can help him..

_ How the hell can he live, thinking like that all the time? _ God, must be like bees in his head. Is he on drugs? Not important. The man lives in his head too much. Needs to reconnect to his body. How?  _ Mmm. _ If this doesn't work, well. At least I've had him on for six minutes. Well then –  _ let's see. _

_"Is that understood, Hugh?"_

_\------------------------  
_

 

Curled up in his armchair, Sherlock's muscles have locked up involuntarily. He feels as though he has just run into a wall. He is stunned, still. He hadn't expected – Hardwin's voice, so normal, so affable. Sherlock had been feeling so smug – a wonderful exercise, deduction without visual contact, _(and by the way, those women on the relationship site were wrong_ _ _ wrong _ WRONG, it is  _ impossible _ _ _to have a true connection based on a false premise of intimacy.)_

Then – that voice. The language of a true medical professional ( _ he wasn't lying to me? _ ) Firm, friendly, touched with steel, brooking no denial, describing in such detail, such perfect  _ specificity _ what he is ( _ would be _ ) doing, it cuts through the whirling of Sherlock's thoughts.  _ Yes, that. _ His neurons must be misfiring, Sherlock can actually  _ feel _ that gentle, firm hand laid on his throat, gripping, the weight of the palm ( _ abductor flexor pollicis brevis digiti quinti yes _ ) resting on his larynx - so keenly does the other man  _ understand _ that Sherlock's mind is wiped clean, a blaze of white, and only one thought is left:

 

_ Yes. _

  
_\--------------_

John lets out a quiet breath. It worked.  _ I've got his full attention. Now – let's see what we can do together. _

  
_  
  
  
_   


Sherlock has stopped breathing, and is waiting for that commanding tone.  _ Yes. Override me, let the noise stop for a while. Can he... _ ?

“ _ Yes _ _, Hardwin_ ,” he breathes, throat constricted.


	6. Corpus Hominis - The Body of Man

"Good. Are you lying down, Hugh? You can answer. Quietly."

" _No._ "

"Well, then. I am sliding my palm – it is passing over your trapezius around to the back – come on, stand up – and resting the distal phalanx of my thumb over your seventh cervical vertebra, yes, just there, circling it. Good. Are you wearing any clothes?

" _Dressing gown. T-shirt. Pyjama bottoms._ "

"Good. Can you still feel my the terminal phalanx of my thumb against your vertebra? I'm turning over the distal end to the dorsal side and pressing. What do you feel? Whisper."

" _Your nail. Hard._ "

"Yes. I'm running it down now, next to the vertebrae, down the multifidus spinae muscle, slowly – all those subtle bumps of fasciculi, so tense, relaxing as I go – slowly, slowly - down to your sacrum."

" _Hngh_."

"Yes. I would like you take off your clothes now, Hugh. Concentrate on that – the touch of air against your skin, cooling your epidermis, the hairs standing slightly on end – it's as if a hand has stroked them up against the grain. That's fine. Do you still feel my hand on your back?"

" _Yes._ "

"Lie down."

"But there's only - "

" _Be quiet_. If there's a bed, go to it, if it's a couch, lay down. Any surface – I've moved my hand back to your throat and I'm pressing you down – do you feel my fingers pushing against your larynx? Ssh, I could never hurt you, I'm only here to help. There. Your phone has a speaker function, I assume. Turn it on. Put it nearby. I want to hear you. That's right, good. You have a lovely neck, Hugh, that taut sternomastoid has such a beautiful clean line. God, I would love to stroke it with my fingertips. Your skin is so warm over the muscle."

".. _t's that_?"

"Making myself more comfortable. I'm taking off my cardigan."

" _Hn."_

"Shh. I'm moving the stroking up to your face, around the orbicularis occuli, to the corrugator – relax, relax. Focus on the touch. Around and around, my warm finger on your face, passing over your brow, feeling the hairs rough under my finger, the smoothness of the skin between. Ssh. I think what you need... is quiet. Your brain – you can obviously keep up with amounts of data that would overload me so well, _so well_ , you're bloody brilliant at it... but it's too much. You need to stop. Are you listening? _Just stop._ Don't think. Be still.

"The air is moving over your skin, so lightly. It's like water, a gentle current. It's rising, against your back, moving up the sides of your ribs, covering your ankles and feet. All the while, you just breathe, relax. Do you feel it? When it reaches your face, make sure your eyes are closed..."

"I can't..."

"Hush. I'm pressing my index finger to you lips. Breathe against it, yes. Focus on that sensation, my warm finger denting your lips, breathe against it. All the while, you can feel the coolness all around you, your body pressing down on the surface you are lying on. Solid. Still. Breathe. Close your eyes. _Do it._ "

"Mm."

"Relax. I am taking my finger away now. No, don't speak. _Don't._ Put your right index finger in your mouth. Have you done that? Let me hear you sucking on it. Like this, listen. Yes. If I were there, I would take your finger in my mouth just like that, tongue travelling down, tasting, cradling it, rolling my tongue against the creases. Lips sliding wetly over the knuckles as you drag it back out slowly, teeth dragging over the knuckles slightly, and then I would lean my head forward and take it back in, deep, all the way. Distal, proximal interphalangeal, lips sucking at the palmar digital, tongue lapping at the intersection between your fingers. Nn. Just like that. Yes. I love that sound – you sucking your finger. Keep doing that. Put a second one in, keep moving them in and out like that. Slowly. Perfect. Keep your eyes closed, listen to that sound, so _wet_.

"It's just you and I, Hugh. Alone in the dark here. I can hear your breathing, it's a little fast. Do you hear mine? We're together in this. You like to figure things out – can you guess where I would touch you next? Take your fingers out for a moment."

"That's..."

"Murmur it, Hugh."

" _...impossible to deduce. No idea."_

"Exactly. God, what the sound of your voice does to me, especially now - it's gotten so deep. It's like a hand stroking down the front of my body, passing lightly right over my erection. Has anyone ever told you what a sexy voice you have?

"... _no._ "

"You do. Now I want you to put your fingers back in, that's it. Eyes closed. God, I want to study you, I want to lay you out and pin you down, I want to stroke my fingers down through your skin to your every nerve and watch you shudder, I want to relearn all my anatomy lessons on your body. Now... where will I touch you next... ?"

…

..

.

"Nng?"

…

..

.

" … _here...my hands, pressing... lateral malloleus, to the peronaus flexor_ , up the outside of your calve, behind your knees, so sensitive, the tibial nerve there, yes. Around to the side, biceps femoris - vastus lateralis – gluteus minimus, ah, digging my fingernails in there, little crescent moon marks – sciatic nerve – yes, that's it, I can hear you arching up. God, I could just _bite_ you, leave the imprint of my teeth on your hip. I'd love to watch you, your reactions. Are you hard yet?"

"Mmn..."

"One of my favorite things, resting my tongue against a penis as it grows - vasodilation, engorgement of the corpora cavernosa and corpus spongiosum. Testes drawing up, so tight. All that hardness under my stroking tongue, the softness of the skin, the pre-ejaculate. It makes me want to just lick you, from the base of your penis up the the top, nibbling on the frenulum and running my tongue over the glans – so smooth against my tongue, like a plum - so salty and sweet. _But not yet._ "

"Nng!"

"Hush. I'm dragging my nails hard against your skin, denting it and leaving red lines, from your hip over the iliac crest, the obliques, back to the latissimus dorsi..."

"Pls...!"

"Go on, take your fingers out, let me hear the sound. Good. What do you want me to touch?"

" _My chest_... what are you doing?"

"Unbuttoning my shirt. Pulling the tails from my jeans. It's hanging loose now, framing my chest. Listening to the noises you make... Uhn. Pilomotor reflex working well."

"Your nipples..."

"That's right, you're amazing at this, you understand. My nipples, they feel like pebbles."

"Oh, _god._ "

"You sound so gorgeous when you say that, Hugh. That breathy catch in your voice. Can you hear me rub my hands over my chest? Use both your hands now. Stroke first, gently, towards the areola. Yes. Circle it with your thumbs. Are they contracting like mine? Good, now pinch the nipples, roll them between your fingers, yes just like that. Lick your fingers. Now, circle your nipples... tug them until your fingers slide off. Again. God, I can hear you breathing through your mouth, you're making me ache."

"Hardwin..."

"Christ, I would love to bend over you, my left hand on your right nipple, tweaking it, my hot mouth on your right. I would circle it with my tongue, flick it give it a small nip then rub my lips back and forth over it as if I were saying, 'No, no, no, _no, no, no_...'"

"Uhn!"

"Christ, you're brilliant, you're so good, Hugh. God, I wish I could just kneel over you, legs on either side of your hips and grasp your shoulders and fucking kiss you, just force your head back and your lips open and _know_ you, taste your mouth, feel your tongue against mine, so warm and slick..."

"And... and I would kiss you back, get my hand behind your head, grip your hair and just pull you into me, I want my tongue in your mouth, I want to understand you inside out and oh, _Hardwin..._ "

" _Yes_. My hands grasping the sides of you face, holding you to me, your hand pulling through my hair. I want to rub my lips and tongue over yours, back and forth until they are red and slick and swollen from kissing, perfect, just perfect. I'd nip your bottom lip, hard, _hard_ , and suckle it to soothe away the sting."

"Yes. _Yes_. Like that. I want to... can we..."

"Do you have lubricant? Then lick your hand, nice and wet. I want to hear you, all the little noises. I'm still with you, I'm still kneeling over you. Spread your legs out, wide, I want to be between them. Bend one leg up, yes that's it, I've got my forearm under your knee, caught in my elbow. God, look at you exposed and ready. I've got my left hand nice and wet too, Let's do this, together, my hand over yours, forefinger and index finger and thumb making a ring. Circle your cock, stroke nice and slow. Can you feel the clench every time you do that, how it stiffens and relaxes under our hands? Yes, that's it, hands follow voice, you're wonderful."

"I want your mouth. Tell me how you're going to fellate me."

"Fellate - a fancy word, you're thinking too much again, Hugh. Too fancy for what I'm going to do."

"What - "

"Suck you off."

" _Yes_."

"Keep your eyes closed, focus. Lick your hand again, really lick it. Now let's rub from the underside of the head, across the frenulum and down. Grasp yourself, firmly, stroke up and rub the palm of your hand over that taut shiny glans in a twist and back down again. Ah... that's it. How does that feel?"

"Good – it's... ah! _Good."_

"Just good? - that's feeble. We can do better."

"Mmn...?"

"Now listen, your hands following my voice. What I enjoy about you, Hugh, is that even such clever man can come to pieces when my mouth is wrapped around your cock, my lips stretched and cheeks hollowed as I suck you off, my eyes watching your face to see you come apart. No, keep stroking, more shallowly. First I like to lick my way up, one long wet stripe to the tip, tongue just dipping into the slit to taste, leaving a string of saliva from your cock to my tongue. You feel so good, so smooth in against my tongue – I can't help licking again, and again. My breath is warm against you, damp against your groin."

" _More_. Don't stop."

"Keep stroking, but angle your cock out a little in invitation, don't you want it? That's it. I've let go of your hand and now my fingers are clenching on your hips, denting the skin, pulling you into my mouth, until my lips meet your fingers, my tongue keeps moving on the underside of your penis. Every time you move your hand up, I meet it going down, your fingers are getting wet with my saliva, I'm taking you deeper, deeper, my eyes closed from the sensation of your length in my mouth, god. God! _Faster_!"

"Nn!'

"I reach with my hand to your right nipple and pinch it, roll it hard between my fingers, and I'm still sucking, breathing through my nose, God, you're brilliant, you taste so good, and I stroke between your legs where your sac is tight and hot, oh listen to you, you sound so god-damned hot!"

"Nn! Nnn!"

"Your cock is fucking my mouth, and my fingers are pressing, sliding up your perineum and circling your hole, back and forth, back and forth, _and I'm sucking you so hard, my teeth are scraping your cock just a little and all the while I'm licking, pressing._.. _"_

"Oh god, I'm going to come, I'm... uh! Uuh! Ah...!"

"That's it, you're gorgeous, God that sexy deep voice, you're brilliant, I'm swallowing, as much as I can, but some of it leaks out the side of my mouth, I have to chase it with my tongue and lick my mouth clean... that's it, Hugh, just relax, breathe... breathe..."

…

..

.

"... Hardwin. That..."

"I can almost hear your brain click on again, like a switch. Just relax, enjoy the sweetness of the prolactin and oxytocin neurohormones, all right?"

"That was unexpected."

"So, you didn't call a 'fantasy artist' to assist in a wank?"

" _Please!_ You're smiling again, I can hear it in your voice. I think... I like the way you talk. But I wanted to... What's that noise?"

"Uh, just a moment, someone's at the door."

_\- John? John, are you there? -_

"Christ. Listen, I'm going to have to... "

_\- John, open this flipping door! I wanna see you! -_

"I'm sorry about this. Thank you for calling our service - "

"Wait - "

" - and if you would like to talk with me again, please ask for me by name."

"John?"

...

..

.

"John..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I do not have a medical degree. No, I am not a medical professional. Nor do I study Latin, physiology or... anything really. If there is a mistake, please tell me, I'd love to know.
> 
> What I did do was picture where John would put his hands and mouth, crack my knuckles, think long and hard about what would A) shut Sherlock up for once, B) get him off on the 'phone.
> 
> Therefore - this chapter. Some dominance, lots of very specific medical/scientific terminology.
> 
> Why yes, it DID take about a week of beating my head on the desk, while researching the heck on anatomy to do! Google-fu - very strong in me.
> 
> Why yes, it IS my first porn fill ever. If it worked, let me know. It scared me to death, writing this.


	7. Interlude - The Visitor and The Thinker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VERY small interlude between calls.

John reluctantly opens the door to his sister Harry. Drunk. Before the work day is even done.

She is leaning on the frame, a small scowl on her face ( _so like his, and how he hates to see her like this_ ). She looks him up and down and over his shoulder at the open laptop, a smirk replacing the frown.

"What were you up to, John? Am I... interrupting something?"

John looks down at his badly buttoned shirt, and sighs. "Yes, but not what you are thinking. Come on in."

\------------------

Sherlock uses his discarded t-shirt to mop himself up absently, his mind already racing ahead, speculating. Results of the experiment – surprising. Impossible to anticipate such a connection, or his own reaction. He wants to know how the other man knew what to say, how to say it. Sherlock wants _more._

Random factor to quantify – Hardwin, fantasy artist. _John._ _John_. He savours the name, another piece of information to add to his hoard. John, with his medical vocabulary and bargain-sales clothing. John, with his unexpected drunk _(girlfriend?)_ visitor. John is an enigma, a surprise, a puzzle - and Sherlock wants to _take him apart_ to see how he fits together.


	8. Cerebrum Hominis - The Mind of Man (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his second call to John. Part 1 of Call 2.

 

  

  * John, well done you! [MelissaXX]
  

  * Hello, M. Why, what have I done? [JWatson]
  

  * GL48. He's called back, is asking for 'Hardwin' again. [MelissaXX]
  

  * Really. Thought he'd be a one-shot deal, no joke. ;) [JWatson]
  

  * Ha ha. Me too. Still a creep, btw. Asked me how old you were, what you looked like. [MelissaXX]
  

  * Doesn't surprise me. [JWatson]
  

  * Kink for secrets and confessions? [MelissaXX]
  

  * Something like that. [JWatson]
  

  * I told him nothing. Listen, if he gives you any trouble... [MelissaXX]
  

  * Disconnect. I know. Can't have any sticky legal questions. You'd lose your licence. [JWatson]
  

  * Not just that you prat. Just want to keep you happy. You're reliable, you're good at this. Can't keep you forever, you'll move on. [MelissaXX]
  

  * Not just yet. You say the sweetest things. Thank you. [JWatson]
  

  * Flatterer. Keep up the good work. Right, turning him over to you now. [MelissaXX]
  

  


  
\---------------

  


  


  


“Hello, Hardwin speaking. I'm gla - “

"Was that your girlfriend who was at the door at the end of our call?"

"... do you ever start a conversation in a normal fashion, Hugh? 'Good afternoon, so nice to hear from you... What are you wearing...?' Things like that?"

"Conventionality is the refuge of a stagnant mind. Why waste the time?"

"Because manners cost nothing? You catch more flies with honey than vinegar? Because your mum raised you right?"

"Trite aphorisms rot the brain. You sound like my brother. Aren't I paying... "

"And with that, you've just exhausted my tolerance, Hugh. You are a customer. I am here to provide a service, and though in general the customer is right, it doesn't mean I will take anything less than courtesy from you. You called me. But I don't have to stay on the line."

"... Yes. I understand."

"That's good."

"But if you were truly conventional, I wouldn't have called you back."

"Thanks for that! Good to hear from you, by the by."

"Ha. Well. May I ask, then, whether the woman at the door was your... what's that hackneyed phrase? 'Significant other.' _Hardwin._ "

"I'll overlook the sarcasm in favour of your elegant diction, Hugh. No, she was not. Just an acquaintance... "

"You worry about her. You curtailed our call to answer the door."

"Yes. I apologize, it wasn't the most professional thing to do."

"It must be a habit."

"Sorry. What?"

"The drinking. Turning up on your doorstep. The tone of your voice when she knocked. Frustration, resignation... It's good you aren't personally involved with her. Such self-destructive behaviour wouldn't bode well for any long-term relationship."

"Mmph."

"What? What did I say?"

"Nothing. Nothing. You are... quite right, it is self-destructive."

"And you hate to watch it happen."

"I do. I can only help so much."

"As a medical professional, you would naturally have compassion for those in need of help. You never did say – what branch of the profession are you in?"

"Are you... are you _fishing,_ Hugh?"

"Only hoping to catch something. _Hardwin._ "

"You are... incorrigible."

"Thank you."

" And you know perfectly well I told you I was a nurse. Even though you don't believe me. You don't forget a thing, do you?"

"You... have caught my interest."

"That's flattering, and a bit alarming, frankly. If that's the case, why did you wait three days to call back?"

"Ah, I like that tone. Flirty and a touch jealous. You are very good at this. You only give yourself away when you are caught by surprise."

"Thank you!"

"I was called away. There was a case, and the police wanted some advice."

"Is it something you want to talk about? Can I ask, or is it confidential?"

"I trust you can keep confidences, what with the nature of your work."

"Of course."

"You may see this in the news, but I'll keep back the important details, pro forma. Well, then. It started with a severed head, but ended up being rather boring."

"A severed head is _boring?_ "

"Well, no. Actually, I exaggerate, it was only mostly severed, the spinal column was broken but hadn't separated."

"God. _God._ "

"This isn't bothering you, is it?"

"No, no. Keep going."

"The victim was found in London Docklands, on a footpath near to the water. The victim was sprawled out face up, with a severe gash in the neck, through the thyroid cartilage, the sternomastoid, the carotid and jugular veins, and most of the the trapezius on the right side. Exsanguination leading to death occurred in a matter of minutes. The victim was paralysed. What do you think?"

"Pardon?"

"I'd like to hear your thoughts. Any speculation on the cause of death?"

"Besides bleeding out? God. Let me think. You said the neck was broken."

"C5 – shattered, diffusing the force of the blow. Spinal cord severely compromised."

"Depending on the victim, that alone could have been enough. How was the blow angled?"

"From the left, coming down at slight angle."

"The injuries could be consistent with a left-handed attacker of enormous strength of similar height. But... If the vertebrae was shattered... the weapon couldn't be - "

"The wound was mostly clean edged, with some ripping at the posterior."

"Not a knife."

"There were some small splinters of wood embedded in the flesh. Also, some caught underneath the body. If there were any others, they were blown away. The wind was unusually strong two days ago."

"Wood? How is that even... ?"

"It may help you if I mention that the victim was walking near one of the new construction sites next to the river."

"Now you're smiling. I can hear it. All right. Massive blow, death by blood loss, broken spine, face-up. Construction site. Not a murderous worker?"

"No."

"Wind. It was gusty, I heard it on the telly. Oh. Wait. Are you telling me... ?"

"Yes. God, you are good, better than the police. Not as quick as I am, but I could practically hear you working it out."

"A freak accident. Gust of wind off the river picks up some unsecured plywood from the construction site, presumably from an uncovered upper section. Skims it just hard enough and far enough to kill a pedestrian walking near by. Plywood blows away, possibly into the water, murder weapon gone. Amazing."

" _Brilliant,_ Hardwin."

"Um. Thank you. But you had it all figured out."

"In a matter of minutes, yes. Out of the ordinary I suppose, but not as exciting as a serial killer."

"Your life must be interesting, if what constitutes exciting for you is a murderer."

"It's what I _do._ I love puzzles. Life is so tedious without something to think about."

"Okay, so that was one easy afternoon's work for you. And yet it still took you two days to call me?"

"Ha. You overestimate Scotland Yard's ability to grasp the obvious. Not to mention the speed at which they blunder through paperwork. At any rate, I'd always planned on calling back. You surprised me. Not many people do that."

"You are an intriguing man yourself, Hugh."

...

.

"What?"

"That's not what people normally call me."

"What do they say, then?"

"Freak."

"That's – listen, Hugh. Pay no mind to what they say. Bloody rude! It's obvious to me that they don't understand you. Your mind moves so much more quickly. They probably can't keep up."

"And yet you managed it."

"Yes, well. I appreciate differences, I understand them. I am not in the ordinary way myself. "

"Too different?"

"Too damaged."

"Impossible. If... "

"I don't want to talk about that, I can't believe I said... _Christ._ Never mind. What I actually wanted to do was tell you a short story in answer to yours, from my days at uni. "

"Fine, I'll let it go for now. Tell me."

"A man in his 50's came into A&E. Brief atonic seizures, he couldn't keep his head up or walk. Extremely shallow breathing... "

"Hypopnea."

"And heart rate under 50 beats per minute."

"Bradycardia."

"You _are_ good. Bezold-Jarisch reflex, unusual case. He died shortly after admittance of... "

"Cardiac arrest. Hardly unusual, not that interesting."

"Not as boring as all that, Hugh, let me _finish!_ God, your attention span... Would it help if I told he'd been watching a rerun of 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?'"

"No. Is that a television show?"

"Is Whose Line Is It Anyway?' a... you're not joking are you? You seriously don't know it?"

"Is that popular culture? I tend to delete that from my brain."

"Christ. You are _incredible._ One of the longest running... never mind, not important then. It's a comedy programme, does that help?"

"Oh. _Oh._ You mean... he died of - ?"

" _Laughter._ Yes, though the pathology did state, as you said, cardiac arrest."

"That's... I... "

"I _know._ What a way to go. No, no. _Don't._ You're making me giggle, we shouldn't laugh at this. The poor man died."

"Of _course_ we should. He died with a _smile_ on his face. All right, all right. Stopping now. Oh, Hardwin. That story... that was _good._ "

"You are welcome. You know, you must be very good at what you do. Consulting with the police. How did you guess all that information about me on our first call?"

"It was deduction, not guessing and you could do it yourself if you tried, Hardwin. Besides, you'll think it's obvious once I tell you."

"I don't think I could get tired of understanding how your brain works."

"... Thank you. You'll have me flushing like a girl in a minute."

"Never."

" _Stop smiling._ Well, then. Ahem. My train of thought ran something like this, but rather more quickly. 'Accent – specific to a region, near to London but not central. Clothing – your style choice, the price, the quality – suggests a modest budget, eye to long-wear, which feeds back into accent and region. Middle-class, small town. Shoe scuffed more on one side – uneven gait, long-term problem.' It seems absurdly simple, now I am saying it out loud."

"Not at all. I confess I was taken aback."

"And undoubtedly you are a medical professional, though why you prevaricate about telling me what kind... "

"Boundaries, Hugh."

"All _right._ Now, you tell me how you did it."


	9. Cerebrum Hominis - The Mind of Man (Part 2)

"Did what?"

"Did... that thing. You were able to guess what I... Some of it is undoubtedly experience at eliciting a response from callers, but.. you were _specific_. How?"

"Doubt you'd like my answer. You know stage magicians get no credit when they explain the trick. Plus, a logician like you may not like some of how I did it, it was a bit more... intuitive. If I tell you, you'll doubtless think I am a pretty ordinary bloke after all."

"I don't think I could. Presume you to be ordinary, that is."

"Melissa told me you wanted intelligent first, educated second. I fancy I fit the second half of that bill. So, you wanted someone who would mentally engage you in something above the ordinary sex-talk. You wanted me to give you details of my clothing, factual details – you like to know the truth, and also trusted me to give them to you."

"I could tell when you weren't being truthful. The nurse thing... "

"Yes, fine, just _leave it_ , won't you? Anyway. The way you went on – I could tell your brain was just spinning too fast. It's not good to be so cerebral all the time. As to how how I made you stop thinking – partly a pure guess, though your professed desire to talk to an educated man played into it. So – medical terminology, commanding voice, someone to take over for a while. A common desire for clever or powerful people. Of course, you didn't have to respond. You trusted me. So, you allowed it to happen. You sank into the fantasy."

" _I let it happen._ Yes. But you were... astonishingly good at what you did."

"To be successful at the job, you need that connection, you have to have that give and take. Some knowledge, some guesswork, and some understanding about people and their desires."

"I see. Speaking of desires... "

"Yes?"

"If it doesn't cross any of your 'boundaries'... what do you think of when you get off?"

 __"Excuse me, Hugh. Are you... is this you doing sex talk?"

"Don't sound so amused, I did mean it seriously. I genuinely want to know."

"While I'm getting off? Um. Could be almost anything, at the peak. White noise, a flush of heat, sounds, random images flashing by."

"Random images?"

"Yes, really. Static on television stuck between stations, a sunset, a racing bike, a red apple, an old lover's discarded t-shirt, a pull-along toy, Big Ben chiming, everything spinning by like symbols on a slot machine until... oh shut up with the snickering, won't you? It's true."

"I know! That has got to be the absolute truth if ever I've heard it, oh - Big Ben! _Chiming. Thank you_ for that. Ding dong!"

"Ha ha. Well, Mr. Clever. What about you?"

"Sorry. Really, I could listen to revelations like that for _hours._ You have no idea. I'm beginning to believe you really are out of the ordinary way. You _continue_ to surprise me. Aah... "

" _Hugh..._ "

"Yes, yes. My orgasm. Yes. Well, it's more like... like the culmination of a piece of music, except it's played over my body, as well as in my head. It's part of the whole process."

"Really!"

"Mm, it's the best way I can describe it. Like... a lone violin, playing, joined by a second, and then a cello, followed by a flute, then an oboe... on and on. Building and building, until there's a huge climactic crescendo. So to speak."

"That sounds... rather good. A bit like the end of 'A Day in the Life.'"

"I beg your pardon?"

"' _A Day in the Life?_ ' By the _Beatles_... ? Oh never mind. Pop culture again. The finale of the 1812 Overture then, or Ravel's Bolero."

"I detest the sentimentality of Tchaikovsky, but appreciate the comparison. You know classical music?"

"A little. I used to play clarinet, until I entered university."

"Clarinet? Suits you. I play violin."

"Ah, that makes sense. And now I think about it, I've never come across any duets for violin and clarinet."

"That's because there are very few. I suppose if we ever played together, we'd have to compose our own duet."

"It's been too long for me. I think that'd be beyond my current capabilities."

"Somehow, I doubt it. You could play. If you _wanted._ I'd like that."

"Mm."

"But really, what do you fantasize about? In the run-up to climax, that is."

"Well, as revenge for your laughing at me about Big Ben earlier... _you tell me, Hugh._ "

"Ah, a challenge? Well. From what I understand, most people fantasize about another person, or some sexually appealing trait or situation. Pornography seems to cover the most common scenarios – large mammaries, two women and a man... It has come up in investigations, and I do make a point of knowing these things. I study people. But you... "

"Is that all you've got, Hugh? Me, thinking about... about tits and... ? That's feeble, that's _beyond inadequate_. You've a talent for observation, but generalization won't help you with me. You did say I am beyond ordinary. _Try harder._ "

"Of course, I forgot. I am speaking to a _true_ student of life. _You_ understand what goes on inside people's heads, you and your _intuition._ I hadn't... "

"Oh, come on, Hugh! You asked if that woman was my girlfriend! Why would you ask that? A middle-class, almost middle-aged ex-medico, with a bad leg working a gay phone sex line? Really? Simple logic should have told you that I am a poor prospect for a boyfriend."

"... I wouldn't say that. It's not beyond the realm of possibility. You could be extremely handsome - I have no idea. What I do know is - beside what I've already deduced, you are very good at your current job, which makes you good at conversation at the least. You have innate kindness or sympathy. These are all attractive traits. Also, you are certainly beyond educated, you are intelligent, which is _much_ _more important._ "

"Thanks for that, at least!"

"Of course, relationships are a true mystery – not even I can understand what brings some people together. I admit it – you _seem_ somewhat better at understanding the inner workings and motivations of people than I. That was the surprise for me – you worked out something I didn't even know I wanted until you told me. But this supposition about your intuition is based on one example, one conversation we've had. Scientific methodology demands several trials."

"Yes, I worked out one fantasy for you. Shall I do it again? Is that what you'd like?"

"Not exactly. But, yes, let's have a second experiment. Tell me – do phone sex workers get off? When they have that 'give and take' with a client?"

"No. No, not usually. It's quite rare. Too distracting. Some are better at faking it than others... "

"But I've already established that if you are sufficiently... disconcerted, you are unguarded."

"True. All right. You have my interest. What's the game?"

"I want to try this 'intuition' lark, and we'll see who is the true student of life."

"I never said I was a student, you did."

"Yes, fine! But I also remember that you said the best phone calls involved a building of the fantasy together, back and forth. So, _that_ is what I propose - we do it together. All of it. I'll start, and you continue, switching the narrative."

"What if it isn't working for one of us?"

"Interrupt. Take over. Or if there's a pause of over five seconds, then it's either a pass to the other, or you are stymied."

"You mean, if one of us is beyond the power of speech?"

"Mmm. If you like."

"Fine, I agree. But – I have a condition. It cannot be a fantasy as... as boring as the porn one you mentioned for me. I am not 'most people.' "

"Hardwin. Pay attention. _I never said you were._ So stop putting words in my mouth! And don't give me such a starting advantage, telling me what not to say. I have to discover what arouses you."

"Don't be ridiculous. I've been doing this job for some time, it's only fair to even things up a bit."

"Well. Thank you. I agree to your condition. Nothing trite or cliché as mainstream pornogrpahy."

"Agreed. This should be interesting. Are there any stakes in this?"

"None beyond saving my pride, Hardwin. I just want to see if I can get you off. No holding back. And stop grinning – yes, I can tell. I will do my best."

"No holding back. All right. Hang on, I'm going to switch from headset to the microphone and speaker on the computer... "

"What was that?"

"Knocked something over."

"Your cane."

"Leave it, Hugh. I'm moving to my bed with the PC, putting it on the bedside table."

"That didn't take long. Small place. Bedsit?"

" _Hugh._ If you don't... God, you make me positively _long_ to do more than telephonic erotic asphyxiation on you. Are you trying to put me at a disadvantage?"

"No, no. You couldn't kill me anyway. I've been told I am heartless."

"Oh, the old, 'You are such a robot! You have no proper feelings!' slur. An angry ex, a bad break-up, I assume."

...

..

.

"And now, Hugh, we're even for that crack about my flat. For the record, I don't believe it. You seem quite human to me."

"You are uncanny. Conversation with you is dangerous. _I think I like it._ "

"Ta. Shall that be the starting point, then? You are an automaton? Technology-fetish?"

"Mm. Somehow, though that's promising, I don't think that's your area. Won't help me at all. You don't seem very good at computers anyway, judging from what I hear of your typing style. New to the world of home computing?"

"HUGH. My hands, wrapping around your neck... "

"Tease. Are you ready? I'm in position."

"I'm ready. Shall I begin?"

"No. I will. Just a moment. Um."

"Okay. Whenever you are ready, Hugh."

"Shush. _Thinking."_

..

..

.

"There is a golden plain, dry, a desert, stretching away under a burning hot sky, glittering in the late afternoon sun. No houses, no roads, just a few small twisted trees, tufts of dry sharp grass and a silence so thick it's like a smothering blanket. Underneath a tree twisted into a hieroglyph of pain by the wind, there is a dusty mound. An outline, a blurred shape. There's potential, in that shape. Something biding its time, hoping to emerge. Like a seed planted in the ground years and years ago. But it's been so dry, so sere, and nothing has come. _And so it lies there under the earth, waiting..._ "


	10. Cerebrum Hominis - The Mind of Man (Part 3)

“ _It has been so long, and so in that dry earth of that desert, it lies, waiting..."_  
….

..

.  
“ Hardwin. Hardwin? It's your turn.”  
“... give me a moment.”  
“You – you're breathing a little quickly. Are you... all right? Have you changed your mind?”  
“Yes, I'm fine. _It's fine._ I - just – give me a moment. I need a _moment..._ ”  
“Take your time.”  
…  
..  
.  
.  
“Right. All right. I'm ready. Could you – could you repeat that last bit again please, Hugh?”

“... in the dry earth of that desert, it lies, waiting...”

“And... and above, a high shrill call breaks the silence. The call of a hunter. A broad, blunt-winged shadow sweeps across the ground, turning lazy arcs. A falcon glides lazily, swinging lower and lower. The pinions open and close, like fingers spreading in the air just for the pure joy of feeling the wind rush between them – an affirmation of life in this dead place. Yes... The tree, the mound attracts the tercel's attention. It glides in low, and lands in a flash of beige and brown and dark slate feathers on the mound. Looking down its beak, it considers. It tears away the grass tufts with quick twists of its head, looks again. Beak open, wings spread, it mantles the mound protectively. The silence is complete – there is nothing here to challenge its claim. The wings begin to stroke, long flight feathers brushing through the dust at the top of the mound, revealing shoulders, a neck, a face – as dun gold as the surrounding earth. With care, the falcon presses its beak to the man's mouth, for it _is_ a man. A man made of the lonely elements of this place. I nibble a lip gently, testing the resilience of the skin and flesh. Preening the man's dusty hair and brows and lashes, bill sliding with infinite care through the hairs, lifting and straightening them. I return my attention to the mouth, which has softened and opened slightly, beautiful and vulnerable. I nibble again, pressing, _pressing,_ harder, opening the warm mouth wider... ”

“And... the weight of the falcon on my waist grows heavier, wider. My mouth opens under the pressure of the beak, but it has changed - softened, melted, and a tongue touches mine tentatively. I open my mouth wider, welcoming the warm intrusion, lips moving softly against yours, _oh._ I lift my head to press more firmly against your mouth, my lips catching slightly on yours. The feel of your teeth behind lips is a delicious hardness, so I press harder, exploring, my tongue darting into your mouth. I pull back slightly, moisten my lips again and angle my mouth over yours, slick, rubbing – _oh,_ you feel wonderful. So _pliant._ Your tongue in my mouth is the best thing I have tasted for eons, and I suckle it, stroke it with my own tongue."

"Ah, Hugh, that's _gorgeous_ , go on..."

"My pale eyes open and look into your wild ones, Hardwin, completely dark from lid to lid. Brown and grey covert feathers trail from your head down your shoulders to your wings – so smooth, I want to touch them. A man straddles me, a fierce falcon-winged man. Your weight presses my body into the dust, but I shift my hips, stirring the covering dirt, undulating beneath your spread legs. I raise one shaky arm free of the earth and reach up to your mantling wing-arms, and run my hand down over the smooth feathers, one long sweep from top to tip of the pinions. Reaching up again, I curl my hand around your head, and pull you down as I raise my upper body, fingers curling into the under-down, feeling the blood-heat of your skin...”

“And now, Hugh, my mouth is feeding on yours, stretched wide and forcing yours wider, deepening the kiss - until you are the only thing I am aware of, and I am all that is in your world. I pull my head away and kiss your jaw line, nibbling my way up. My wings wrap your shoulders in a cloak of brown and slate blue, as I lean in and pull your upper body closer to mine, my chest resting on yours. My teeth fasten on your earlobe and I bite gently, tugging and suckling it softly. Then I release it, letting it slide wetly from my mouth, giving it one last lick before I rub my cheek against the side of your head, preening, preening, and finally resting it against your temple. My lips brush the soft skin behind your ear, my nose is buried in your soft hair, and I just breathe one word, damp air tickling against your skin. _'Mine.'_ ”

“ _Oh._ ”

“... and I use my feathered arms, my pinion-fingers to lift your body free, stroking earth from your smooth ochre-gold body. I catch your pale-gold gaze with mine as I touch you. Caressing, the firm flight feathers spreading and dragging gently against your long calves. Can you feel them? The edges of the feathers giving softly under the pressure, the spine at the tips bending and curling against you. Up, farther, the outside of those long thighs. The inside of your legs, in short teasing strokes, yes, that's it, up, closer, closer to your groin...

“Oh, _Hardwin._ ”

“And then the strokes move away, teasing, slipping to the outsides of your hips, up to your chest and down, down, your smooth stomach contracting away under the cool touch... again. Almost to your groin. And again. _God,_ you look good underneath me, your warm body under mine. So smooth and golden. I lean down to lick a line up your sternum to the soft skin at the base of your throat, and nip at the tender spot. Ah, I love the feel of you, I rub myself against your waist. ... “

“Nngh, and I can't help thrusting against your body, you entrap me as surely as the earth had. I want that feeling, your thighs against my sides, my cock nestling against your arse, rubbing, trying for some friction – you make me so hard, god! God! I... I bend my legs up and push you back against my thighs, and I lie back to look at you better for a moment. Beautiful and dangerous– you are _my_ hunter, Hardwin, mine."

" _That's it._ Go on, Hugh, I want to _feel_ you... "

"I dig my fingers into your thighs, leaving white marks, then slide them up to grasp your narrow waist. My fingers tighten, _mine to touch_ , before running up your stomach to your chest, thumbs stroking... stroking that hot skin. My palms are on your pectorals, and I curl my fingers, pressing dimples into the firm muscle before relaxing again, thumbs stroking over your areolae...”

“Mnn!”

“You like that... you have sensitive nipples for a man, don't you. Unusual. Sexy. Mmm... Very lightly I scratch down, nails catching on the tips. They look so hard, so tempting, I do it again before seizing them between thumbs and forefingers and tugging gently. Yes, that's it, _make that sound again, yes, perfect._ Your nipples are lovely, reddened that way. Begging for me touch, god it's arousing, and I pinch them more roughly. _Yes._ Christ, Hardwin, let me hear you... !"

"Fuck, _yes_. Keep _going_."

"I gently dig my fingers into the surrounding muscle once more before returning to my thumb stroke, around, around... Your cock is standing free, swaying with each deep breath and I curl a hand around the base and pump it, once, twice... _yes,_ that's it, your head is thrown back and the line of your body bowing back against my legs is gorgeous. But it's _not enough_ , not enough. I want to touch you all over, I want to know your every inch, everywhere all at once _now_."

"God, yes. _Yes._ "

"Hardwin, I... I want to... _god_. My body... quivers, trembling. You can feel the vibrations against you, and you begin to sink, down, down to the ground, as I dissipate, swirling up in a golden dust, a warm feathering stroke of silk against your skin, caressing all over...“

“Hugh, _Jesus_... !”

“Ah, this, _this_ is what I want – to be able to touch you _everywhere._ Everywhere. Do you feel it? The press of arms all round you, rubbing your chest and back and stomach... Hands stroking up your legs, fingers sliding down your arms to twine with yours... Nails gliding through the sleekness of the feathers on your shoulders to the sensitive undersides of the wing muscles, scratching lightly... My teeth nipping down your throat, my mouth covering yours, tongues twining together, lips pressing gently against your closed eyelids and feeling the flutter... _All of you, at once..."_

_"Don't stop. Don't... stop."_

" _Never_. God, the sound of you! My fingers gripping your buttocks, kneading, pulling so you can feel the movement in your anus in sympathy... My hand still grounding you, still holding your cock, except now I can feel the pulse of the veins against my tongue, taste the salt and feel the jerk as I engulf you and suck, so hard, it's almost painful, tongue and teeth working up and down on you, foreskin pulling up over the glans... “

“Jesus! Jesus, Hugh! And... _you're killing me,_ Christ, you are _good_ at this - and I spread my wings, and launch us up, up, beyond the burning heat, to where the sky is dark and blue. Falling away from earth, there's nothing around us now but that blue. No gravity, no friction of hot desert air...."

“And I slowly swirl into a loose body and face and embrace you, I want to see my eyes reflected in yours... I want to see our pupils dilated in arousal. _God_ , I want you. I trace your penis with the backs of the knuckles of one hand as I press a finger against your anus, circling it slowly, feeling the give of the flesh, ah, _there_ – and the tip just slips in, so easily, and I kiss you. Lips pressing yours, so sweet, tongue slipping past lips...."

“ _Fuck._ I see you, Hugh, the dust tracing your body is like stars, and your eyes - you shine, so bright, _I see you, only you,_ my god how could I not? You're _brilliant. Fuck._ I... I use my wings to gather you in, press you against me. The feathers fall away from the metacarpal joints on my wings, drifting away, revealing my hands. I pull strands from the blueness around us, and pull them around you, bonds striping against the shine of your body. I use them to coalesce you, pull you together, otherwise you may slip away, and god you look beautiful with those dark bands pressing your flesh. _Beautiful._ "

"Hardwin. _Yes._ "

"One circling your neck, several ringing your waist and chest, leaving your nipples exposed... Straps on your thighs up high against your groin, just below that sweet arse... ankles, wrists, biceps. Do you like that? _Yes._ I love it when you moan like that, so deep, Christ your voice is pure sex, you know that, Hugh? Fuck, you make me _hard._ I grasp your wrists and twist them together behind your back, the bonds adhering to each other. I swing you around and roughly jerk you back flush against my body by the chest band, your light skin shining against my shadowed self, my erection pressed firmly against your arse, my left hand drifting lower on your hip, _you fucking gorgeous man..._ ”

“Nnh! _Ah_..!”

“Ah, _you know_ what I want to do to that arse with my free hand then, good – I like that desperate little noise you make... I slick one finger up, and press. Even pressure... past that initial resistance, steadily, deep, deep, and then a second finger joining the first, twisting, brushing lightly against your prostate. Out so slowly, and then in again, deeper, rubbing a circle against that bump. Good, I heard that jerky movement you made, I fucking would _love_ doing this to you. In, and out, scissoring and widening the hole, in and out, pressing... _Jesus,_ I wish I had you here, the sounds you make... And I release the chest band and grab your hair, pulling your head back with a rough jerk, as a third finger presses in, you are so _fucking tight,_ aren't you, practically a _virgin_... “

“Oh god _yes_ , it's been a while, don't stop, _don't stop_ _..._!”

“ _Yes, that's it, that's it,_ so tight and sweet and mine, and I bite your earlobe, _hard,_ it stings, there's a little blood on my lips. You are fucking delicious in _every way._ I run my tongue over your heart's blood, and then rub my lips on your shoulder, claiming you... _you are mine, mine..."_

“ _Oh!_ Oh, oh, nnngh... and... _oh, it's_... and – and I twist in your grip to face you, wrists breaking free of bonds. I grab your wrists, hard, _bruising,_ and pull your hands down to the strap on my waist, I want you to _hold on,_ don't let me fall away. I wrap my legs around your waist, reach between us to your cock... now, _do it..._ !”

“Oh, Christ, Hugh!”

“Oh yes, that's it, your forearms flexing as you pull me onto you, _hard._ Not enough, not enough, _not enough._ My heels against your back, my fingers digging bruises into your sides, as I force you deeper into me, oh fuck me, _fuck me,_ I'm moving on you, pulling your cock into my arse again and again, and it's _not enough..._ !”

“ _Nngh..._ I fold my arms around you and grip you and pull you on me, ah, god, you feel so tight around me. I start to move, small motions at first, then harder, twisting the straps in my hands so tight they are leaving dark lines on your bright body... “

“And I glow brighter, brighter as you fuck me, oh god, harder! _Not enough!_ I flex my hips with each thrust so your hips are grinding into my arse with each shove, ah, _I love that,_ the noise of you thrusting that flesh in and out of me, that wet noise, oh yes. Keep making that noise, let me _hear_ you, god yes. So good, you are so good, _you are so good_ , that cock working me open, yes, more, fuck me, _fuck me harder, oh!..._ “

“Oh, _god,_ Hugh! Nngh! I just want you on me, around me, I've got you and oh shit I am close, I'm close... !”

“Yes, let me feel you, I won't let you go either, I _can't!_ and I reach around with bright wet fingers and thrust them in your anus, working them in and out with fast jerks as you pound into me, oh! Oh! Oh! _John! More! I'm almost there, I'm going to... !_ ”

“Ah Christ, Hugh! Nggh! I'm.. ah! _Ah! AH!_ ”

“Yes yes _yes_ , let me hear you! Let me -! John! _John!_ JOHN!!”

"OH!"  
…  
..  
.

“Ah... ah, God, _Hugh_. I... Christ my mouth is so dry... That was... My heart's trying to pound through my chest... “  
“... what about me? _Fuck,_ what have you done to _me?_ I think... I think I heard the bells of St. Clement's.”  
“... Oranges and lemons. Ha... ha ha _ha!_ ”  
“Say the bells of St. Clement's... Oh, please, stop, stop it, oh... ! My stomach! Can't laugh, it's too ridiculous! _Oh, oh..._ ”  
“Oh. Oh, Hugh. Thank god there's tissues to hand, fuck, I'm _crying_ here. Thank you. Thanks for that.”  
“Yes. You as well.”  
“You all right?”  
“Think I shouted myself hoarse. You?”  
“I am beyond all right. I think I saw a kaleidoscope... everything seems brighter. More vivid. The challenge... you win. You did it -"  
“ _We_ won. We did it. What we did there, together. It... it was out of the ordinary, wasn't it.”  
“Yes. You... were amazing. Are amazing.”  
“So are you, John.”  
“... Thank you. Yes. I couldn't help but notice the use of my name... “  
“Is it... Do you mind?”  
“Aah. I think we're beyond me minding now. Pointless for me to protest. Christ, you catch every detail, don't you.”  
“Hard to turn my mind off. You could manage it, I think. You have.”  
“Yeah. You have a hell of an imagination, Hugh. You really... you did your best by me, I appreciate it.”  
“High praise from the true student of life. Thank you.”  
“Oh, shut it.”  
“Ha.”  
“... What do you think happened next? After we exploded in some amazing light-show from the force of that orgasm?”  
“Oh. Well, we fell. I dropped my head on your shoulder, and clung to you. We fell together back towards the sunlight and the earth below. But you spread your wings, and carried us over the desert and away from my lonely mound.”  
“Ah. But it isn't a desert now.”  
“It isn't?”  
“No. It's green, and full of flowers and birds.”  
“... Yes. I can see that.”  
“I'll call again. I want to call you again, John.”  
“Please. I look forward to it.”  
“Until then.”  
“Try some tea with lemon and honey. For your throat.”  
“I will.”  
“Good bye, Hugh.”

\- Click -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think if I was in the Army as long as John, I'd have wild fantasies too. Okay. Well, I have them now, apparently. Reasons why this part is the way it is? The second call needed to be a challenge for Sherlock's brain, his creativity, but also could show how they would work together.
> 
> And thus: I took several kinks. Threw them in a blender with tequila and the worm. Screwed one eye close, hit 'blend'. Rimmed a glass with fantasy, poured the drink and set it out.
> 
> There.
> 
> Make of it what you will.
> 
> Yes, this was my SECOND ever sex fill. After the previous one in this story.
> 
> How was it for you? Like riding on the wings of a falcon, with a heart-stopping plummet that made your blood sing? Or just weird as heck?
> 
> *Edit* Some lovely and amazing people apparently thought this scene was inspiring enough to draw pictures for and I could blush and stammer at the idea that someone thought it was worth their time. Thank you! And so without further ado except the obligatory warning for NSFW:
> 
> MinoDragonfly's 'Pull Down the Stars,' which has an eerie dream beauty, and has the wing details right! - [Pull Down The Stars](http://minodragonfly.deviantart.com/#/d4tnnml)  
> WhisperElmwood's sketch of HawkJohn and Sherlock (She says unfinished but worth linking nonetheless! It's lovely!) at: [Here](http://whisperfanworks.livejournal.com/16729.html)  
> grumpyjumper's painting (with such vibrant colours and iconographic composition! So great) of John and Sherlock at: [Here](http://grumpyjumpers.livejournal.com/3454.html)


	11. Interlude - Forging the Connection

After disposing of the tissues and taking a shower to rid himself of the last of the lubricant (yes, he'd prepared this time, though in his defence he really hadn't expected _anything_ like that first sex-line call) Sherlock swooped around the flat. Shirt, suit, phone, coat, scarf, a quick finger comb of his damp hair and he was off, bounding down the stairs two at a time. His face was incandescent with the thoughts burning behind it and the suggestion of a smile lurked at the corners of his mouth.

 _John, John... John is different._ Surprising – _how does he continue to do that?_ John is a true challenge, a fresh mystery. He's not ordinary. He's so not-ordinary that Sherlock may have to devote a new classification of human to him. Patterns of predicted behaviour do not apply.

Sherlock was excited by the possibilities – the direction of his experiment was completely counter to his own personal hypotheses on relationships. He'd set out to test a theory, and John had blown it out of the water.

Hailing a taxi, he slid in. "Bart's," he told the driver, and settled back, mind humming.

He was willing to admit it – the dreadful harpies on the relationship website may have had a point. Sherlock was now building a relationship _(of a sort)_ with a stranger. John knew a little about him, Sherlock had gathered more data about John... but it could all be false. _There is no way to tell._ _Exciting_. And yet, there was that connection... He hadn't expected John's unfeigned response to his narration. Sherlock felt a touch smug about that - he'd done it! But... he hadn't expected the easy laughter afterwards, either. It had felt so _natural._ Comfortable. Was it the nature of a telephone conversation? Was it something about John? Or was it that fact that they would never meet, and thus there was no social awkwardness to get beyond?

 _No, not that_ , he thought. Sherlock was not ever likely to feel socially awkward. Manners were a waste of time. He made minimal effort to get by smoothly in his interactions with others, and if he irritated people – well. Not important. Sherlock liked directness, even when it was hostile. It was more honest.

None of this explained why he got on so well with John, in spite of the other man's insistence on conventional politeness. Sherlock's brows drew together slightly. It surprised him that he was willing to humour John. Of course, John _had_ threatened to hang up. _Unacceptable_. He had to speak with John again. _Need more information._

The taxi pulled up at the ancient gate of Bart's public entrance, and Sherlock strode towards the laboratories. Hopefully that girl was there, the morgue attendant with the mousy hair. Sherlock had an abundance of manic energy at the moment, and some time to pass. May as well do some lab work, hopefully on those fingers he'd been promised. He could accomplish something tangible while thinking over his brightest and most interesting anomaly – John.

 _John. John_... with his tiny bedsit that incorporated bedroom and living area in one. John, with his cane (aluminium by the sound). Permanent disability? Recovering injury requiring assistance? _Not enough information._ Initial surmise about leg problem: confirmed. John's reaction to the description of a desert scape at the start of the fantasy – rapid breathing, brought under control in moments. A trained response to distress. So - a cane, bad leg, small flat, short on money, doesn't work outside, panic at unexpected description of a desert. _Conclusion_ – definitely back from abroad, military service. Having problems adjusting to civilian life? Likelihood - high. _Not enough information. Not enough. Need more._

How was Sherlock to verify what he knew? Was it possible to see... No. There must be a system set up to protect the phone workers. Could he ask John... ? Mmm. Unlikely to get a positive response. So he must continue the experiment, see how invested in the relationship John becomes. Perhaps John could be manoeuvred into making the first move? _Secondary hypothesis - knowing that they had started a relationship based on falsehoods, can the relationship continue?_ If not, then Sherlock's views on being honest from the start would be partly vindicated.

 _We get on well together._ A wisp of thought floated through his mind, unrelated to the cogs of logic meshing in wonderful symmetry underneath. _John listens, and more, he thinks. John understood the train of thought concerning the murder more quickly than the police. John engaged my mind with his medical story and the challenge. As to his professional work – well. He's good,_ very _good. Interestingly, so am I – a matter of listening for cues, as John had said._

Sherlock's eyes sparked with devilry, as he called a greeting to... Molly, yes, that was her name. _Can't really see myself in the phone sex business, but..._ His lips turned up, and Molly's expression brightened. _If this detecting business doesn't work out, it's good to know I have a fresh career path with which to annoy Mycroft._

 

\------------

 

John was sitting back at his desk again with a cup of tea hot in his hand. With one finger, he pecked out a response to Melissa's message concerning the length of the call for G.L.48. _Hugh._ He looked at the screen and replied to Melissa's query about whether he'd had any problems with the client, but his mind was elsewhere.

Well. That had been... good. Better than good. He hadn't expected – that. As a doctor, he knew the numbers – 85% of patients with PTSD experienced _some_ form of erectile dysfunction. It hadn't been a probl... well only a minor issue, really, it wasn't as if John had dates queued up to jump in his bed, was it? How could it be a problem? It was, he decided, a non-issue. He took a sip of tea.

So... Hugh. John knew better than to get physically involved in a fantasy, but... that challenge. Something about Hugh's determination to test himself, to see the thing through had been disarming. Not to mention the little noises he made in that voice of his. _Mmm._ To be fair, John had done his bit to help him along, and God! wasn't the man quick! Managed to hit John's buttons, and thank god for it, he'd been worried that he wouldn't be able... well, no, more like concerned... anyway. _Hugh.._.

John enjoyed talking with him, hearing about the police case and bantering back and forth. The man hardly ever missed a beat. He liked the strange rapport they had built with their talk of orgasms and crime scenes and their work. Hugh had been... unexpectedly kind, too, waiting for John to regain his composure. When he'd described the desert, and the images, and the memory of the stillness of danger, John's heart had kicked in his chest. It had caught him off-guard, and he appreciated that Hugh had given him time to catch his breath.

Besides, John had got a little of his own back – he now knew that Hugh had a messy break-up in his past. His lover had hurt him by calling him unemotional, deeply enough that he still brought it up in conversation, albeit jokingly. He knew that Hugh played violin, hated Tchaikovsky, and had no knowledge of popular culture. _Unbelievable - not to know the Beatles_? Intelligent, yes, hugely so. He liked a touch of dominance, and wanted some reassurance from the way he'd ended the fantasy with an image of them falling together, Hugh carried by John. Oh - and he'd had male lovers in the past. Quite some time ago, to judge from the gasped, "Oh, god, yes, it's been a while, don't stop... !"

The memory of the _need_ in that voice made John smile, and the smile was still evident in his voice when he connected with his next caller. "Michael! It's good to hear your voice. Yes... yes, how did you guess I was waiting for you? No... no, dressed in nothing but air, that's right. I prefer to be naked and ready when you call..."Later, John signed off on his shift and went out for some groceries. The early evening smells of London enveloped him – concrete, dust, car exhaust, the perfume of a woman walking past with her boyfriend. Lit signs seemed brighter, colours more intense. He walked along at a good pace, and when the girl at the shop handed him his change with a flirty glance, he realized he'd been smiling. His smile widened, and he wished her a good evening. He felt more connected than he had in a long time. Nice not to be looked past as if he were a ghost.

Pleased, he gathered up his bags and left. Walking home, the cane tapped the ground every second step, swinging up between strides. John's mind was elsewhere, busy pondering whether his experiment in rejoining normal life was working.

That night when he slept, there was no gunfire, no shouts, no crimson soaking and spreading through cloth.

 _He walks silent sands scattered with tufts of dry grass, sun beating down. A Saker falcon soars overhead, and ahead, misty with distance there is a mound. A tree inexplicably bright with leaves stands guard. It is quite a ways off, and in his dream, John knows he_ has _to try harder to reach it. He lengthens his stride, boots kicking up puffs of dust, but is strangely content. The path ahead is clear. All he must do is -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the last line is meant to stop that way. Dreams are often that nature - you wake up, they shift...
> 
> By the by - I don't really have a beta or Brit. If you see something peculiar, let me know.


	12. Call Interrupted - Revelare or Revealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock calls his new interesting experiment, just to say...

 

 

_Monday, December 21rst, 2009  
_

\---------------------------------

 

    * John, your admirer is on the line again. [MelissaXX]



 

    * Admirer, M? [JWatson]



 

    * I know you have many. Deservedly. [MelissaXX]



 

    * Please. Spare my maidenly blushes. [JWatson]



 

    * LOL. No. THE admirer. The posh-sounding arrogant one. [MelissaXX]



 

    * Don't say that. He's actually quite pleasant. [JWatson]



 

    * There! It's official. St. John. Patron of sex line workers. [MelissaXX]



 

    * Ha ha. [JWatson]



 

    * Well, he's nice to you. Doesn't waste pleasantries on me. [MelissaXX]



 

    * That's him all over. Why is he so nice to me? [JWatson]



 

    * You're a clever one, John. Don't be modest. It's obvious. [MelissaXX]



 

    * ….? [JWatson]



 

    * Smitten! Or obsessed. What's the secret? [MelissaXX]



 

    * I talk to him. That's it really. [JWatson]



 

    * All right, St. John. Be mysterious. You ready? [MelissaXX]



 

    * Let's have him then. [JWatson]



 

    * Keep up the good work! ;) [MelissaXX]



 

\----------------------------------------------

 

"John! I can't talk long. The police rang up to invite me to consult on a case, and I've just ordered a cab. _Why_ did that woman keep me on hold so long?"

"Hello to you too, Hugh. Your telephone manners improve by leaps and bounds. Did you really just call to tell me you can't talk long?"

"Yes. I did say I would call. So I have."

"You. You are mad. And though I am obliged to crassly mention that you will still be charged for ten minutes even if you disconnected now, I am... flattered. It was kind of you to let me know."

"... You're welcome?"

"It's good to hear from you, Hugh."

"Likewise."

"Mm."

"Fine. _Fine._ You drive me to small talk. How are you?"

"Wait, wait... stop. _Don't speak another word_. I must treasure this moment. Give me some time. You – are you actually indulging me with social pleasantries?"

"Very amusing, I'm sure. Are you done?"

"Yes, yes, quite done. And thank you for your tolerance of my little ways."

"You're grinning, aren't you, John? And people say _I_ have a twisted sense of humour. You may doubt it but I _did_ have a proper upbringing. And though I find conversational platitudes in general tedious, I will go so far as to say that I am very well, and looking forward to talking a bit longer next time. Even though we _are_ wasting time with small talk. See what you've reduced me to? _Chatting._ "

"Welcome to the human race, my good man. It's what we do. Chatting is a friendly social convention and requires little effort, really. Besides, I don't think you'd play along with my whim if you didn't secretly enjoy it."

"Make no mistake, John. I _am_ making some effort here."

"... All for me. Well, I really am flattered, then."

"Let's not forget, of course, that you threatened to hang up before if I didn't behave well."

"If you were a different sort of person, that wouldn't have changed your behaviour one bit. Trust me, I know. And so, I'm not fooled. You _are_ a decent man underneath, aren't you, Hugh?"

...

..

"Hugh?"

"I'm not that."

"What, decent?"

"Don't mistake me for that."

"... All right then. Though I think your life must be sadly lacking if simple compliments throw you so."

"... _John._ I can't tell if you are simply an optimist or just very astute."

"I'm working a phone sex line. What do you think?"

"Definitely the latter. Speaking of that, how ever did you end up... Oh, hell!"

"What? What is it?"

"The cab's just arriving, I can see it out the window."

"Never mind then, Go on, then. Consult. I'd like to hear the story later."

"And I would love to hear yours, if it's not an impertinence."

"Always fishing for those details, Hugh."

"It's my nature."

"Mmm. Said the scorpion to the frog."

"John... ?"

"Sorry, that was just a joke. Really. Off you go. Call me. I enjoy talking to you."

"Until later, then. But before I ring off – "

"What?"  
"I think... I think I like your shoulders."

"... _What_?"

"I think I'd like... to grasp the point of your left shoulder and squeeze it gently, feeling the firmness of the muscle and press of bone. Then, I'd slide my hand lightly down your arm, just grazing the hairs, tickling slightly - down, down to your wrist and over the back of your hand. I clasp my right hand to your left, palm to palm, our fingers twining. I flex my fingertips, rubbing the skin on the back of your hand, back and forth, back and forth, yes, feeling the drag against the pads of my fingers,the skin moving over muscles and tendon. How warm you are. I pull our hands up and over my shoulder, brushing them through the curls against the back of my head, my cheek grazing the skin of your arm, ah."

"Oh, _god_."

"I close my eyes, and turn my head slightly so my lips brush against that sensitive skin on your inner arm. Your pulse is beating against my lips, thrumming. I love that throbbing sensation under my mouth, so sensitive and fine is your skin there. How sweet it smells, with just a tang of salt. Delicious, and so warm. I press my lips harder into the curve of your elbow, nuzzling, catching and dragging circles against your skin. And with no sound, I mouth against your skin - _'John. John. John, I want to fuck you. SO badly.'_ "

" _Jesus._ "

"Mmm. I do love the breathy exclamations you make. It just makes me - "

"Who is supposed to be the phone worker here? Christ! Don't you have a cab to catch?"

"Ah, sweet validation. Thank you! And, John?"

"Yes?"

" _Have a nice day_."

 

* Click. Beeeep *

 

"You evil man..."

 

\------------------------------

Sherlock climbed into his cab with a line between his brows, thinking over the conversation. It was a mere pause, but it seemed that John had been caught somewhat off-guard by the mention of his shoulder. It was more than bewilderment at Sherlock's changing the topic so suddenly. Why? Something new in the puzzling equation of John. Also, that comment referencing Aesop's fable of the scorpion and the frog makes Sherlock uneasy. It strikes too close to the bone. _Does he really think -?_

John was continuing to pick up details - nothing concrete, thank god, but more unsettling personal ones. Sherlock wasn't used to having his inner self read as easily, as casually as a magazine in a doctor's waiting room, yet John seemed to do it with no effort. The phone call had been a short one, true, but Sherlock had learned nothing more about him except confirmation that John was very, very astute. Also, that he thought Sherlock is decent... which proved that John's people-reading skills were not infallible. For the first time, Sherlock felt a twinge. _John should not think that about me, I am not - that._

Still, there is that indefinable something. John has become more than a datum to be collected and analysed. Sherlock _likes_ talking to him, which is so unusual as to be unique in his experience. John's intelligence, his wry humour, his strange dignity and the delicious mystery of his secrets – the leg, the bizarre job choice, his empathy and his pain. They've never met, and yet there's this odd relationship being built. Why? It's entirely _illogical_.

Intolerable to think they could never meet, it's like an itch, Sherlock's unassuaged need to _know._ Of course John would be cautious, but there must be some way to convince him that a meeting would be desirable. What would be the best approach? Play on the possibility of mind-blowing sex? _No._ A phone worker was probably jaded on that topic. Use John's essential compassion – not quite, no. How to convince John that he, Sherlock, is harmless? _Ha._

Difficult, but Sherlock was sure he could make it happen. He knew human behaviour, and getting desired results is merely the result of applying the right lever in the right place. Even for phone sex - look at the end of the phone call! He grinned quickly in solitary triumph at the memory. Sherlock was quickly getting the knack of verbal titillation. The strain in John's voice after Sherlock had described what he'd like to do to him was _delicious,_ as was the jolt of wicked pleasure Sherlock had gotten after delivering that last piece of inane social pleasantry and hanging up. _So much for manners, John!_

Sherlock closed his eyes and leant back, pressing his head against the seat cushion. Enough. There was a case at hand, something fresh to tease his mind. Too bad the call had been cut short – but there would be more time to talk. His mouth curled up at the corners infinitesimally.

Yes. Later, there would be more John to work out.

 

\----------------------------------

 

John stared blankly at his computer screen in disbelief for a moment after Hugh hung up, then a laugh escaped him. _Hugh._ He'd certainly got the last word in on that call. John shook his head, the smile lingering, and pushed back from his desk. Time for a short break – get a glass of orange juice and let his incipient erection subside. Damn, but the man was picking up the phone trade alarmingly well.

Cold glass in hand, John crossed the room to the window, leg hitching just once. He ignored the phantom pain and pulled the floor-length curtains aside, letting in a flood of afternoon sunlight.

 _Interesting,_ he thought. Hugh was good at bantering, despite his complaints about small talk. He'd humoured John and jokingly employed it – a nice gesture. Yet a kind word on John's part almost panicked him.

John closed his eyes and leaned against the woodwork of the window frame, enjoying the play of light against his lids. New things to add to his mental impression of his odd caller. Interesting. _Memorable._ No need to takes notes on Hugh. Hugh – a complex, humorous, intelligent, solitary man. Unused to compliments. But - a man who sees himself as essentially harmful in his nature to others as the scorpion in the story? John didn't believe it, he didn't want to believe it. John didn't _know_ him, and yet...

John took a sip of juice and savoured it, licking his lips. And yet, Hugh had called. He didn't have to call, but he'd called a phone sex worker, only to say he couldn't talk! It was... sweet, and at odds with the way Hugh apparently thought of himself. _Poor self-esteem?_ Well, he could understand that. John rolled his bad shoulder, his mouth twisting. It was something he could help Hugh with, if he called again. John hoped he'd call again, soon. There is something there, beyond the usual business transaction - something fragile that doesn't bear close examination.

Body relaxed, head leaning against the window frame, he enjoyed the warmth of the sun bathing his face. He could feel ghostly lips tracing words against his arm, and briefly longed to feel those warm lips against his own, hear that deep voice huskily murmuring words of acquiescence, of desire, – for him, just for him. John sighed. _Ridiculous. You've talked to the man three times. What do you really know about him? Don't get too involved._ Trouble was, he already was, after a fashion. A wry smile flitted across his face as he considered his own folly, and he opened his eyes to the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids, I hope you realize the fast posts are simply because I am catching up on editting the story thus far. WHILE I am still writing it, but on the kink meme the prompt was full, I had to go to the overflow post and people suggested I kick this up on AO3 for simplicity, except is anything ever simple? Damn the formatting, just... go straight at them!
> 
> Anyway, there will be a point soon when the updates will happen a week or so apart. Please realize it's because I came to the end of what was already written, and am bravely forging ahead with the rest.
> 
> And be patient. The word meter thing here says I am at 18,000-ish? I have 10,000 more words DONE. And Sherlock and John still have not seen each other, much less MET.


	13. Dolor Hominis or The Pain of Man (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call 3, part 1.

**Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009**

"Good afternoon, John!"

"Hugh... How nice."

"Ha. I trust you are well?"

"And I hope your crime scene was everything you could have wished for – serial murders, plywood, full of mystery."

"Hardly. Not after I was done with it. Victimless crime – straightforward case of embezzlement from multiple companies. Why the police never caught the woman before – apparently having a decent C.V. is enough to get a job without a background check. Idiots."

"Compared to you?"

"Mm. A simple matter of some hacking to solve the case. I could have done the job without leaving my flat."

"Good. Good."

...

..  
"John?"

"Yes."

"I meant to ask, before. When you described the falcon, the call we had before last – what species was it?"

"...Sorry, what?"

"What kind of falcon did you describe? Beige to brown and grey feathers... John, are you -"

"A Saker."  
…

..  
"... Disappointing. No witticisms about my manners. Terse statements. The timbre of your voice. You seem stressed today. What is it?"

"I'm quite well. Thanks for asking! Yes. Saker falcons. Not as well known as peregrines, of course. Everyone knows those. But Sakers are quite common - "

"Did you see them often in Iraq?"

"... _I beg your pardon?_ "

"During your service. Abroad, as medical personnel. Iraq? I mean, I don't doubt your credentials in the profession - "

"How could you possibly – oh never mind! Why would you think I was in the service?"

"The leg. Your medical knowledge. Your description of a prey bird species common in the Middle East. The fact that you had to use breathing techniques to subdue a panic response to a description of desert scenery. Is that enough? Shall I go on?"

...

..

"Ah. I see. I've done it again. Boundaries."

"If you... _if the only reason you started that fantasy with the desert was to fucking get -"_

"John _. No._ No, I didn't do that – I... No."

"Yes. _Yes, I was in the service abroad._ Happy?"

"John - "

"No!"

..

"No. It's not your fault, Hugh."

"Patently it is my fault. Don't be stupid."

"No, it really isn't. You... it... God. _God!_ "

"Not stressed, then. Distressed. And I've made it worse. I apologize."

"You weren't to know."

"I'm said to be a genius."

"Ha. But I'm the phone worker. And not being very professional today. So I should be the one to apologize."

"Don't."

..

" _John._ What is the matter?"

"I... "

"Something is wrong. You say it's not because of me, I trust you on that. You can tell me."

" _I can't._ "

"You _can._ Give and take, that's the business. I've taken. Now it's your turn. I'm here. Listening."

"Hugh..."

"John, _listen._ What did you say to me once? It's just you and I, alone in the dark here. Now. _Will you tell me?_ "

"You're a client - "

"And if that's all you think I am, if that's all there is, I could just hang up now. I'm not. I won't."

"Fine. God. It's just... Fuck. _Ha._ Oh, Hugh. Well. You caught me on a bad day."

"John, you are the epitome of professionalism in your work. You never miss a cue, you are amazingly good at what you do here. I think 'bad day' must be the understatement of the year, coming from you."

"You are _so_ right. You have no idea. Where to start?"

"The beginning, of course."

"Don't be clever. I – it's supposed to be my day off."

"Is it? Shouldn't think that would bother you. You have an excellent work ethic, as far as I can tell."

"Yes."

"But?"

"But nothing. _I. Should have. Today. Off._ "

"Why?"

..

"All right. Don't start there. That's not where the story begins, is it."

"No."

..  
.

"I'm here, John."

"I know. Fuck. _Fuck it._ Shall I start with the three hours of sleep I got last night? Sleep made – made _hellish_ with nightmares from my time serving Queen and country? Or shall I start with how the drunk call at four a.m. put paid to my attempt to get any more rest, disturbed or otherwise?"

"Your... acquaintance from the other day?"

"Yes... She - Never mind, it's enough for you to know that dealing with her in that condition is never easy. Belligerent, maudlin... ladling out the guilt along with declarations of her drunk, fucked-up version of love. _God,_ when she's like that... But she's... _Christ._ "

"You could have ignored the call."

"But I couldn't. I can't! Anyway, there was no getting back to sleep after that. And of course, today's Wednesday."

"Wednesdays... are worse than other days of the week?"

"Wednesdays are always my day off."

"... Is this not good?"

"Not good. It is _so_ not good, when you have to gimp to the nearest Tube station to go to a fucking mandatory visit to the clinic, It's bad enough when people just brush past, look around you as if they are embarrassed, but it's _so much worse_ when people give up seats on the train for you. It's... I can't even - "

" _Your leg._ You have to go every week? That's why you had to leave the Service. It's... that bad?"

"It's not! Not like it was, it's been better recently, actually, and... But the point is - after a session, I _need_ my fucking Wednesday afterwards. It does my head _right in._ "

"I... see. A 'black dog' kind of day. I can understand. But, John - if today is normally your day off, why are you talking to me?"

"Ha! I don't know _why_ I'm talking to you, except you're there and I don't have – I haven't any... And of course, today someone at work just had to quit unexpectedly. And another worker is ill. They needed me to take a shift. How could I say no?"

"I could, very easily. Your sense of responsibility – don't be so damned noble, John. Tell them to stuff it. If anyone needed a day off, it must be you."

" _I. Can't._ I can't. It's not just the money, I need... I have to... _Anyway._ I'm sorry. I'm sorry to put this all on you."

"Don't be an idiot. There's nothing you could say that wouldn't interest me."

"Thanks, I suppose. Thanks for that."

"No need. But John... "

"Yes."

"That's not the complete story."

"...no."

…

.  
"John. Are you with me?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm here."

"That's good. Do you want to go on?"

"Yes. Yes. It's just – _God._ My fucking day. As if it couldn't get any worse... "

"John, it's fine, just breathe. _Breathe._ "

"I got – I received some bad news today. An Army mate, Murray, he'd been trying to get in contact via email. He was finally able to get my number. And he...he rang me up just before my shift."

...

..  
"A death. One of your fellow service members. Someone you were close to."

"Yes. Yes, that is... No deductive skills needed to reason that one out, was there."

"...Not really. Can you tell me about it?"

"Sure, why not. You wanted to know, last call. You were going to ask how I got into – well, this job."

"I did want to know. I do."

"It's just... the thing is, I wouldn't be telling you this, I wouldn't even be here at this job right now if it weren't for her."

"Her?"

"Elizabeth. Lizzy. _Damn it_."

"Go on."

"She's – She was trained as a Combat Med Tech, we were in the same regiment. With our kind of work, we were thrown together lots, worked together, hung out. Had a few drinks together sometimes, on good days. Or the bad ones."

"The percentage of women in the British Armed Forces is quite low. She must have been unusual."

"Huh. Yeah, yeah, that's one way to describe her. She's small, has this absolutely loony curly hair – always escaping from plaits. Not pretty, but funny. My god, she made me laugh sometimes. There was this one time, we'd just finished a rotter of a day. We've got a half-day off the next day. We're filthy, we stink of blood, we are practically reeling with tiredness, and she turns to me and says, 'Wats... – What's going to happen tonight, John, is that you, Murray and I are going to go for a drive. We're going to find a river. We are going to get drunk, skim some pebbles and forget about this day.'"

"Skim _pebbles?_ "

"Yeah, that's what I said. I'm laughing, but she's dead serious. She says, yes, that's what we'll do, skim some stones on the water. Her family used to play this game – whoever had the most skips got to ask a Truth, Dare or Drink question. Well, not the drink part, she just added that on, said it was going to be the only thing to save her sanity after the day we just had. Said as far as she cared, the loser just had to drink."

"Good for her."

"Well, Murray flat out says she's crazy, won't have anything to do with the idea. But she manages to get us this wretched vehicle, a Land Rover. A Snatch Land Rover – Christ! The dirty double entendres she flung at me with this little smirk - 'Care to get in my Snatch? You can go a long way in this Snatch. Fuck, this Snatch is a rough ride...!' You wouldn't _believe_...! I thought my ears would go up in flames."

"Ah, the language of the serviceman. Or woman. When you put it that way, I am amazed at the manufacturers of this vehicle for thinking such a name was a good idea. I wonder if I should speak to someone in government?"

"Please do! Yes. Well, it was all a bit of a farce after that. I don't know how she got the Rover, or the off-base passes signed – I don't even want to knew how many regs we bent that night - but the next thing I know, we're bouncing off down some track to a nearby gully."

"Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Of course. It was always dangerous, going off-base. But she's got a maggot in her head, and I can't keep her back, and won't let her go alone. But we've got our body armour and service weapons, the vehicle's armoured, there's a radio. And we're off in the dark to find some bloody muddy little creek nearby."

"Were you able to find it?"

"In a matter of speaking. It was dried up, just cracked mud and stone. She says she doesn't care. We're throwing rocks for an hour or so, trying to bounce them instead of skimming. We've got the headlights off, we can't even _see_ the stones, we're just listening for the bounces and squabbling about cheating and how it's my fault for forgetting the IR goggles. It's _insane._ She's got a killer bowling arm – played cricket as a child for Christ's sake. She's beating the pants off me, and I end up doing most of the drinking, which is fine, she'll drive back. Except when we get back in the Rover, the bloody engine won't turn over!"

"Ha. You couldn't repair it? What did you do?"

"I'm not an mechanic! Nothing we could do. We radio base, inform them of the situation, they tell us they'll send help in a few hours. She takes first watch. I fell asleep in the back."

"An ignominious ending. But a night to remember."

"Bit of an understatement. She got us both punishment detail for practically stealing the Rover, confined to quarters for a few weeks after. It was worth it. God, it was a beautiful night. You wouldn't believe the stars in the desert. It's... one of my best memories. Of Lizzy."

"She... sounds like a vibrant young woman."

"She's – she _was_."

"It can be dangerous, serving abroad. What - "

"I know it's dangerous! What, do you think I am an idiot? Are _you_?"

"John, I - "

"She wanted to be a doctor, could you imagine? Even after seeing how hard, how bloody and thankless it could be, she was going to go to uni and get her degree. And instead, she – instead she -"

"I didn't mean anything by that, John, really."

...

..

"It used to really bother her, that the Army was reluctant to send women to the front line. She had the training but... The closest she got was the field hospital, or ambulance duty. It looks like the front line found her, instead. A roadside bomb. All four in the vehicle dead."

..

"Hugh, I've seen a lot of death. In my time in the Army. Violent, senseless death."

"Did you... ever become inured to it?"

"You do. You have to. But not this. Not when... it's not right, _it's not right!_ She was too young, she had plans! Not like me, just wasting my time wondering what to do, wandering around like a fucking ghost! She was one of my best mates, over there, and I've lost – I've seen so many die! If it had to be any one... but I don't want to ask why, it's so, it's so fucking _useless,_ and she... It's not... God, this fucking, _fucking_ day!"

"John, no, no, no, _no._ Don't. I can hear you wiping your face, _don't._ I – I'm not equipped -"

"Ha. Don't I know it. Christ, Hugh, don't panic on me, I'm all right."

"You're evidently _not._ "

"I'll be all right."

"You won't."

"I will. I just... I can't even imagine a worse day."

..


	14. Dolor Hominis or The Pain of Man (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call 3, Part 2.

"Hugh. I – I do feel a little better. Talking about it. With you."

"I'm rubbish at this – _this._ Don't thank me."

"All right then."

"... I do understand, to some extent. I lost someone – my father. When I was a child. A heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not the same."

"Worse, maybe. The death of a parent can affect children profoundly."

"It was... difficult."

...

..  
"John. I think... you could do something. For your friend. For yourself."

"What's that?"

"Look for some pebbles. Flat ones. Find a river."

"Skim stones. _Yes..._ "

"... Oh. No, I didn't mean to upset you again, John. Don't -"

"Heh. No, I'm okay, really. That's – it's good. A wonderful idea. Thank you, Hugh."

"You may not be grateful about being alive, but – I... I think it's good."

"I have my doubts some days, but may I ask why you think that?"

"You're here, talking to me. You said she got you into this job. So."

"So. Here I am."

"How did she do that?"

"Ah. I suppose it does seem strange to you, someone like me working as a phone sex worker."

"No, more like _surprising_ to me, which you continually do. It's refreshing. If you don't mind. I want to know everything."

"'Everything' takes too long. Haven't I talked enough? Aren't you bored yet? This must be costing you - "

"Oh, for _god's sake!_ Don't mention money again, it is too, too _boring_! I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know!"

"All right, Hugh, all right. Well. In short, Lizzy used to work the lines when she first came to London and needed the money. To be honest, when she talked about it – the industry wasn't what I expected, and she seemed to have a pretty positive outlook on it all. Some of the stories – god, she used to make me laugh. Embarrassed the hell out me, too. She said I'd be good at it. When I was discharged, I was in pretty bad shape – no way to know if I would be able to work, much less at what job. The disability pension doesn't go far. She gave me some numbers, a few people to contact. Just in case. And so... "

"Here you are. You are good at it, by the way."

"Yes. Well, thank you."

"So – penury and a bad leg pushed you into the profession."

"Well – yes."

" _John._ That can't be the whole reason."

"What do you mean?"

"You are still going to a clinic for your leg problems. Therefore, your disability pension hasn't run out yet."

"Damn. You would catch that. Good work, detective."

"Why did you join the phone sex industry, then?"

"I'll answer, if you answer my question first."

"Let's hear it."

"Why did you call? Why do you keep calling?"

"That's two questions."

"Essentially it's one, and I'm waiting, Hugh."

...

..

.

"All right then, Hugh. How about, I answer for you. You're lonely."

"I beg your pardon?"

"People who call phone sex lines generally fall into two categories, with some overlap. They want a wank. Or they want a talk. You've passed beyond the overlap, and into the 'wants to talk' area. Lonely - "

"I don't feel lonely!"

" - plus you were such an arse when you first called, and that kind of behaviour isn't exactly conducive to making friends. Rather the opposite – even _I_ was ready to strangle you or have you banned from our lines. Yet once I called you on it, you changed your behaviour. That suggests that your antagonistic modes of speech are a habitual defence. You've as much as admitted that you had a relationship that ended badly, and you haven't been sexually active in some time."

"Thank you for the psyche evaluation, _doctor!_ "

"You're welcome, _detective._ So. Am I right? Do I need to break anyone's kneecaps for you?"

"... You know you're right. And thank you for the generous offer, but no."

...

"Mmm?"

…

..  
"All _right,_ John. God you say more with silence than anyone I ever met! I'm... I don't do relationships."

"No lovers?"

"Not for some time."

"It must have been one hell of a break-up."

"Yes."

…

..

.

"It was a long time ago. It's not important."

"Mm. I can _see_ how unimportant it was. Care to tell me about it?"

"Fine. Though why you are pushing, you already understand -"

"Because things in the past can still have power over us, Hugh."

"You guessed it in the second call. Seb, his name was Seb. We were at university. We were lovers, but apparently I wasn't – he said I was cold, cut off from any human emotion. It ended."

"The mystery of it to me, is why you let what some prat, some university age imbecile said to you affect your behaviour even to this day. What kind of idiot name is Seb anyway?"

"He wasn't an idiot, I would never waste my time with an idiot. It's true - I don't open up easily, I don't always understand others..."

"He was cruel to say it."

"He was right."

"And that's where I have the problem. I don't agree."

" _I don't understand you at all, John._ "

"Put it down to the magic of phone conversations. There's fewer physical cues to catch. There's fewer consequences if there are misunderstandings. People tend to be more unguarded, on the phone. So, no, I don't think you are cold. I think – no, I _know_ it's rather the opposite, but you've suppressed it for so long."

"I suppose you're right. Does this... magic apply to you, as well?"

"Sorry to possibly disappoint, but - phone sex worker. What do you think?"

"Oh. Well, I have caught you out a few times."

"I'll give you that. So, Hugh. Why haven't you got anyone now? You're brilliant, you've got this great voice - "

"Not handsome, John?"

"How would I know, honestly? Is that important, to be good-looking? I hope I'm not that shallow! But really. When was your last sexual encounter?"

"... I can't believe I am having this conversation."

"The man who could describe pulling himself onto my cock as I came with his fingers in my arse while floating in outer space has nothing to be embarrassed about. That was _brilliant._ "

"John!"

"Evens things up a bit. Besides, what did some wise person say once? 'It's just the two of us, here in the dark.'"

"Honestly, John."

"Barring random encounters with phone sex workers, when was your last time with someone?"

"You're my first."

"What?"

"First sex line call."

"Um. Well. Thank you?"

"John. _It was my pleasure, John._ Entirely -"

"... _Jesus._ Your voice – no, not getting sidetracked. How long?"

"Guess."

"Three months ago?"  
…

..

"Six months ago?"  
...

..

"A year?... 2 years... ?"

"No. Go higher, John."

"I'm afraid to! For God's sake, Hugh! You... How?"

"It's easy, really."

"The hell it is! A brilliant man like you, you have so much to offer, I can't believe - _Why_ , Hugh?"

"How does one avoid romantic entanglements for years? Simplicity itself. You flatter me, John, by seeming to think people would easily be easily attracted to me. If they are, they are soon dissuaded."

"Mm. Is that so. Barriers again, Hugh?"

"I have an innate reserve that seems cold. I've been called heartless. I have a low tolerance for people of little intelligence, and there are few that can keep up with me. Relationships are a tremendous expenditure of time and effort, and at this point in my life, my work takes priority. People looking for relationships can never be content with being relegated to a position of lesser importance. In short, I am not an easy man to be with. This is how I am."

"Okay. But that's why – or part of it anyway. _How_ is it possible? It's – I can't even _imagine -_ "

"Oh, very well. It's simple, people don't seem to realize how _easy_ it is. I've had lovers since Seb, but the interludes were of brief duration, and have become more infrequent as time has passed. Your industry is evidence that one doesn't need physical contact with another person to relieve... urges. You seem to think abstinence is difficult – _it's not._ Being alone, not having sexual relationships – it's a series of choices, of saying, "No, I don't want to go out, I need to finish this experiment. Do understand, I'm not available for a date, I have a case that's important. I'm busy." The time and effort saved is tremendous, and I channel it all into my work. Work that matters. That's how. You choose. Day by day."

"You... Let me understand this – bit by bit, you've turned away from having relationships, from even having simple sexual contact with others. You've chosen work... or it's an excuse to avoid contact - you've _deliberately_ cut yourself off from - "

"That's an overly melodramatic way to put it."

"That... may be one of the saddest things I've ever heard."

"I don't _need_ your _pity,_ John! I don't _want_ it, it's abhorrent to think you feel sorry for me! My life functions quite well as it is, thank you!"

"For god's sake, Hugh! Let's summarize this – you say you are cold, can't let people in, and don't want to expend the effort to make it happen! You don't ALLOW it to happen, you have this wall -! Surely a genius like you can see it's a paradox? You are crap at relationships _because_ you don't let them in! For such a clever man, you are _amazingly stupid_! I can't believe this! And yes, what I said holds true - you are the loneliest, most isolated genius- _idiot_ -"

"There's _you,_ John. What about _you_?"

"What about me?"

"Would you say that _we_ have a relationship?"

"... Of a sort."

"That's why."

"Why what?"

"In answer to your question, before. Why I continue to keep calling."

…

..  
"John?"

"... that. I'm sorry, that was quite – I don't quite know what to say."

"Thank you would suffice."

"So – in this one case - with me - you believe... that the time and effort expended was..."

"I like to think of it more as an investment."

" _Hugh._ "

"There... is some connection. I don't understand it. I never _expected_ it. But it's down to you, of this I am certain. I want to know more."

"Aren't you afraid that... this, the medium of the telephone conversation – that because of the anonymity of this, your normal barriers are down, that... you are, um. Not yourself?"

"I appreciate your tact. Yes, there is a certain safety in it I hadn't expected. Yet I've told you... John, you've seen more about me than anyone I've met in years. I've been more... myself. God, why can't words say – I can't express myself clearly! _You_ know _me_. Can you understand how singular that is?"

"And you've deduced more about me than anyone I ever encountered. Frankly, it's -"

"I want to know you. I want to know _you._ "  
…

..

"John. I... I would like for us to meet."

 

 


	15. Dolor Hominis or The Pain of Man (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call 3, Part 3

" _John. I... I would like for us to meet."_

...

"... Um."

"In person. If that wasn't clear."

"Hugh... uh, while I am flattered by your interest, I have to say, that as a professional, it is discouraged for us... "

"You are are so forthright and conscientious and... and _maddening!_ How is that even possible! Why do I -? You are a paradox, I need to _know._.. "

"Besides the code of conduct, and ignoring the dangers of meeting... well, not a complete stranger but – well, yes, you could be a complete nutter for all I know -"

"I'm not! John -"

"You and I – no, it would never work."

"I suppose you're worried that I would be repulsed by your disability. You insult me. You said that appearances aren't important to you. Do you think I value appearances so highly? Don't _assume._ "  
…

..  
"John?"

"You leave me speechless, Hugh, yet again. Why? Why would you want to meet me?"

"I told you – _god, how many times do I have to repeat it_ – I want to know you. At least dignify that all-too _human_ desire on my part with a response!"

"...Hugh. Um."

"Don't answer, then. Tell me, instead. I've wanted to know, and you haven't given me a complete answer yet. Why are you here? Even with a damaged leg, there are other jobs you could do."

"I... don't know."

"You do. Here in the dark. No barriers. Tell me."

"Ah. It's a bit difficult. Well. You know that I've served abroad. God, how do I explain -?"

"Just say it."

"It's – when you've been over there for so long, seeing.. You can't readjust, you have... problems. It's as if during that time in the desert – in the war - my life was _vivid._ Like an over-saturated Kodachrome print. Coloured in shades of indigo, and sand, and blood. You see the people, the soldiers, the... bodies, and you live on that knife's edge, there's that danger – even the danger becomes part of your life, it sinks in, it's a second skin, you _feel_ the tension of it hugging, gripping you. You force yourself, there's always that barrier to push past – the ragged edge of exhaustion, the end of a mission. Pain. Fear. The lives you hold in your hand - whether it's making that choice as you look down the sights of your gun – _shoot or don't shoot?_ Or pushing your hand through someone's shredded clothing and into twitching muscle fibres, clamping down on the blood flow, because if you don't, it'll be all over for him in matters of minutes..."

"Go on, John."

"And... and you _win,_ every day you are alive over there you're winning against – something. It's... it was... it could be exhilarating at times. And you come back here – and that thing, it was part of you, it was your _life_ – it's gone. Not even ripped away – it's just _missing,_ and there's this fucking hole in you, the bloody wind whistles through, it's so big. And the colours are all faded and wrong, and it's always _cold._ "

"You feel out of place."

"I _am_ out of place, I don't _fit.._. It's the biggest fucking irony in the world – a war's all about killing, death and horror, isn't it? But instead it was the most amazing affirmation of life I'd ever known. So."

" _So._ Your experiences, the way you described them – it was... very eloquent."

"Um. Thank you."

"I dislike saying something you've doubtless heard before, but many veterans have the same sense of being displaced when they return."

"Yes... yes. It's just... My friends are over there, fighting, doing the job I want to be doing, I can picture them all brilliant and clear – and I'm over here, I'm half-dead. I can't feel anything properly, I can't trust the life here, I can't trust people, I keep expecting something to happen, where are the _guns_? Does that man in the coat have a concealed weapon, is he going to -? My dreams are the most life I've had since I've come back, they're always about the desert. God I'm not explaining this very well, am I?"

"You're doing fine. Go on."

"And people look through me, it's as I've lost colour like an old photo and some days I look at my hands and it's like they don't even belong to me. It's like being muffled in wool, I'm not even really here – I'm the ghost of John... And I'm fading, smothering. I'm losing touch and if I don't find some way to feel again, I'm going to open that drawer – I – damn it, _damn_ it!"

"Not you. John. _Never think that._ Do you hear me?"

"Ha. I know. I'm ruined for normal life, I think. My grasp of normality has suffered attrition from being overseas so long."

"Normal. Pfft. It's overrated. Try _my_ life sometime, you'd never be bored."

"Ha."

"No, I mean it. I'd like you to try it."

"I... know you do, it's just – Well. Where was I? There was this thing Lizzy told me once. About the phone sex business."

"...yes?"

"I'm not changing the topic, Hugh, just _listen._ She said that sometimes she'd get calls, and that it was different. Not just about sex. She'd have a conversation with the caller – could be about how their day was, or some light-hearted flirting, or something deep – a secret, a sad story, an amazing event in their lives. She said it was incredible, the connection you could make. It was something intimate, and honest. You learned something real about the other person."

"You... joined a phone sex line. To get over the trauma of having returned from the war."

"Not the whole reason, but sure. It... helps. People don't look past me – they are completely focused on my voice, on what I'm telling them. I'm often challenged at times to make the fantasy – god, it was hard at first! But I'm not bad at it, despite not having a sexy deep voice. I help people, on occasion. I've learned a lot about what people say they want and what they _really_ want. It's – it helps me reconnect. To the world."  
…

..

.  
"Say something, Hugh."

"You amaze me. Do you often get those kinds of calls? A call where you make a connection?"

"No, not really. A few."

"I'm... helping you. We... have a connection."

"Yes, fine. We do. We've made a kind of connection."

"You keep saying that – a ' _kind_ of connection,' a 'relationship of a _sort_.' Why?"

"Hugh. You – we've shared some intimate fantasies. You've listened, and you've been kind when I needed it -"

"I was?"

"- and you've managed to be sympathetic – albeit in your own awkward way. I love talking to you – you are brilliant and interesting and... you've come to mean something to me, Hugh."

"There's a 'But,' in the tone of your voice. John."

"Yes. But a real connection, for me – it needs to be what Lizzy talked about. Something real, something honest."

"You think you haven't learned anything about me? That is patently untrue. What else do you need to know?"

"Oh, I don't require your curriculum vitae, nothing that detailed. But the truth is – _I don't quite trust you,_ Hugh. I want to, god I want to, having you call me has been one of the best things ever. But... there's an instinct – I don't know, maybe it's the soldier in me – anyway. I can't ignore it. Why do you think it's alarming me?"  
…

..

"All right, Hugh. Let's start with facts – I know the intimate details of your mind and character, but I know _nothing_ concrete. I can live with that. What is triggering my unease is the way you know as much about me and more – you know my name is John. You know I have a leg problem and use a cane. You know I live in the city, and am a middle-aged man on medical discharge from the army. You know that I was employed in a medical trade. That I shop at Debenham's, that I have limited means, that I need to visit a clinic for problems stemming from my time abroad. How am I doing?"

"You left out middle-class, fit and brown-haired."

"So far as you know, my physical description is speculation. You don't _know._ "

"No."

"Yet you want to. Know more about me."

" _Yes_."

"Care to elaborate on why?"

..

"... _Hugh_. You push too hard. I mistrust it. Everything I've learned about you aside from what you told me about your father, and your past relationships – I had to work it out all on my own! You confirm the truth, but you never offer it. And that's where we stand."

..

"Will you say something, Hugh? Silence isn't helping me. Rather... rather the opposite."

"You want something real. You like honesty."

"Yes."

"...All right. What do you want to know?"

"Mm. Where to start. Oh, yes. At the beginning. You told me I am the reason you kept calling the line."

"Yes, John. That is true."

"Okay. Good. You said it was your first time ever calling a phone sex line. Why?"

"Why was it my first time?"

"Don't play stupid. _I know you, Hugh_. Stop dodging the question. Why? _For what reason did you call in the first place_?"


	16. Dolor Hominis or The Pain of Man (Part 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call 3, Part 4

…

..  
"Fine. All right, Hugh. You aren't going to tell me. I suppose that this _thing_ we share isn't that important, or you wouldn't be so reluctant -"

"No no no no! That's – it _is_ -"

"You call up, you guess all about my life, you want to meet! You try to make me think you actually have an interest -"

"John! That's not true, I'm not _trying,_ I do -!"

"-in me, a broken-down veteran who... I have _no idea_ what you really want, what you expected when you called this line."

"You know what I want! What I expected – was not you. You are the anomaly, you are different. Of course I want to see you, it's imperative -!"

"You don't have to see me to know me, Hugh."

"Yes I _do._ This is not enough. I need... "  
….

..  
"John. I didn't expect this connection."

"Hugh, you can't -"

"Don't. John. You want the truth. Fine. But how will you know I'm being honest?"

"In the dark. No barriers. Besides – phone sex worker. Trained. Experienced."

...

"Will you just tell me? Do I have to bloody threaten to disconnect?"

"No. Wait."

..

"Bloody hell. It must be bad."

"It's not. Really, it's not."

"I asked, Hugh. I also bullied, cajoled and threatened."

"I'm _thinking_. How to formulate a coherent answer? The whole area is so – inexact. I want to be clear. Otherwise it will seem – confusing."

"I _have_ been told I'm intelligent. Rather recently."

"Mm. Got it."

"Found the beginning of your story, have you?"

"Yes. Let's start with a philosophical question first. What's your take on relationships? Is absolute honesty required?"

"It's good. Um. For the most part. There may be things a person doesn't need to know – maybe they aren't important. But if there's a chance of problems later as a result, best to, well – lay your cards out."

"I see."

"...Wait. The question was indirectly meant for me, wasn't it."

"Yes, John."

"I need it. Especially these days. God, things are so messed up in my head, I can't – anyway. In a relationship I need things to be open and honest and real."

"That is my thinking exactly, John! If you are going to invest all that time and energy into a relationship, isn't it better to know all your partner's quirks? Establish a baseline right from the start - the personality, the behavioural habits that may cause problems in the future? Some people think it's a bit drastic, but it makes things so much more _simple._ "

"And less painful, if your feelings aren't too deeply involved yet. Get everything out on the table – all the ugly business, let them know what they are in for. And the other person can decide, say, 'Yes, this is worth it,' or just walk away."

"That's it! I'm not even talking about the physical element – the little deceptions people employ in their appearance to attract partners. That only works for initial attraction, and inevitably has no lasting effect on a relationship. In fact physical appearance is the least of it -"

"That's... a refreshing opinion, Hugh, though I must say good looks don't hurt for first impressions. The science of attraction, while tenuous, is a real thing. Age-old instinct – can't ignore it."

"Oh, I've done research in that area as well. I'd like to think that in a sufficiently evolved person, the basic instinct can be suppressed or bypassed."

"Says the celibate man calling a gay phone sex line."

"That was uncalled for. I've explained my reasons for my way of life."

"Sorry. Now, _quit stalling_ and get on with it."

"Mm. John. We – didn't start off well."

"If that's Hugh-speak for 'I was an arrogant, too-clever, self-satisfied arse with something to prove,' why yes. That's _right_. We didn't start off well."

"Thank you for that astute character assassination! Sarcasm suits you. My point is this – we didn't start with complete candour. I'd have preferred it, but it wasn't feasible."

"... people call for fantasies, Hugh. That's my job. You are I – we are beyond the work, we are in some area – I don't even know where we are! Normal customers call so they can get off listening to a human voice. That's pretty straightforward. The rest – it's just a fantasy. I'm... a _fantasy artist._ "

"Which is what makes it perfect! My story – it all began on an online message board. There was some disagreement over a discussion of honesty in relationships. Well, I suppose I shouldn't have got so involved, but it touched my pride – it _annoyed_ me."

"A message board for psyche professionals, at least?"

"Don't be so snide, you never get views from the real people in the trenches, so to speak, on university hospital message boards. They're rubbish for my purposes. It was a dating and relationship message-board. Anyway. My stance you already know: to build a lasting relationship, be candid. Otherwise it will lead to conflict. You seem to agree with me, in general."

"Yes."

"The consensus was that I was wrong - me! – and that it was possible to build a relationship upon false pretences. That is, create attachment by means other than the obvious ploys - tarting oneself up with clothing, make-up, hair colour, all that gear. They seemed that you should present yourself as being... other than what you are."

"All right then. And?"

"It also wasn't the usual braggadocio or prevarication the more dishonest use to pick up partners. The women on the site understood the malevolence of such ploys, having no doubt been victims of similar tactics themselves. It should be obvious to the meanest intelligence that if you lie about your job, your salary or your marital status, then you will get caught out."

"True. People will try that anyway, though. But?"

"But what was being suggested was that you should conceal your essential self – that you choose a superficially better version, or present the suggestion of mysterious depths or some such rubbish. Pretend intelligence or innocence or... or deep interest in something your partner likes, in order to catch their attention. I couldn't stand the idea – it's abhorrent to think one would employ all these deceptions in order to – to _snare_ a partner. Entrapment is what I would call it, it's completely counter to my personal hypothesis."

"Mm hm."

"So – query: upon those terms, leaving out the matter of physicality, does misrepresenting yourself increase the potential for a relationship? "

"I see. Go on."

"The second question – if a relationship is achieved upon those terms, with a feeling of emotional attachment being invested on both sides, can the relationship be maintained or developed?"

"...Interesting. And this applies how -?"

"True scientific testing in such a nebulous area is well-nigh impossible. But my eye was caught by an ad on the same site, and it seemed to be the perfect venue. Call a phone sex line. Talk with a worker. No physical distractions, a false premise right from the beginning."

"And you got me. Lucky me."

"I admit, I began the trial out of a fit of pique, but it's proved to be so much more than I hoped! John... John, you've astonished me. I never thought it would be possible - I expected to disprove the hypotheses, to prove that I was right. The results, though... "

"So. Two strangers on the phone. A fantasy. The potential that we are both lying about ourselves, and no way to tell. Make a connection. Develop a deeper commitment based on a false premise. Is that it?"

  
"Yes. It was perfect! Don't you see? Those women on the site were right, annoying as that is to me. It is possible. We've achieved it!"

" _Wrong._ "

"Don't be obtuse, John, of course we have. And that's why it's vital for us to meet! You feel something for me but you have misgivings. This is your chance! How else are we going to verify the results – see whether the thing between us is real?"

"You want to meet me. To see whether a thing based on a mutual fiction can become a lasting relationship. To... verify the results."

"Yes. I want to meet you, John. Very much."

"... _I could kill you._ "

 


	17. Dolor Hominis or The Pain of Man (Part 5)

"...what?"

" _Murder_ you. I can hardly... _Hugh._ You bastard, you _heartless fucker._ "

"That's... not the reaction I'd anticipated."

"I am so sorry! Now I see the reason you were so reluctant to tell me why you really called. Have I skewed the results of your little test? Now that I know?"

"No, that... that's not right - "

"Small wonder I had to wring it out of you! You've had this...this _agenda_ right from the start, and you – you made me think – _God,_ I'm an idiot."

"John, for it to be a valid experiment, I had to -"

"For such an brilliant man it's amazing what _utter shite_ you think up. Do you ever think before you speak? Before you _act_?"

"I've upset you. I'm sorry for that."

"I'm sure you are."

"... You wanted me to be frank, John."

"And I got what I asked for, didn't I? God. _God._ I should have known better than to ask, especially today, today of all fucking days. _This fucking day..._ !"

"...Ah."

"And here's the conclusion to your hypotheses – yes. Yes, and _no._ "

"Meaning?"

"Yes, we managed to somehow make a connection, without knowing thing one about each other. And – no, it can't."

"No – we... aren't going to develop our relationship?"

" _Very good,_ Hugh, you are so bloody quick, aren't you? You did say I was an investment. Tell me, when was the last time you _invested_ time, energy and money in a real relationship? _Because we don't have one._ "

"That's not true - "

"You made me into – into some fucking _experiment._ You invested your time and effort in an _experiment._ I hope the results satisfy you. That it was worth 61p a minute of your precious time _._ Christ, I feel sick..."

..

"You _lied_ to me, you utter bastard! You seem surprised I'm upset? And that's why you are right – yes, honesty is the best policy. Your original premise was the right one."

"...stupid, stupid! I should have seen – But John. I could never have anticipated you. You're an exception, you must meet -"

"No, I don't. _I won't._ Fuck off!"

"Listen to me, John. Don't you see you are emotionally invested? How else can you allay your mistrust if we don't meet?"

"NO."

..

"Jesus. Hugh. I'm amazed. The irony of you lurking on dating sites, thinking you understand relationships is rich. You understand _nothing._ "

"I know behaviour! I've studied, I observe people every day... "

"You observe, but _you don't see._ It doesn't work that way, you can't tick off boxes in the 'Behavioural Sciences' text and think you know -! People are not your specimens, I'm not -! There's no anatomical diagram, no road map of the human heart!"

"The seat of emotions is the amygdala, and it's -"

" _I know where it is!_ Will you shut it and let me talk? Damn you, who the hell are _you_? Screwing around with my mind and my h... And thinking you are so detached, nothing touches you, does it? You, so 'lonely'yet so walled up... "

"You _told_ me the telephone breaks down barriers, why would you think I'm -"

"You have to dirty yourself with a little human emotion, Hugh and just... stop. Stop pretending you are above it all, stop hiding-"

"Me? _Hiding? I'm_ hiding? Are we talking about my – my reluctance to have a relationship or should we just talk about the hypocrisy of _you_ making statements about cowardice?"

"... _What did you say._ "

"A war hero who's _afraid,_ who accuses me of not offering information! What about you? The facts of John? I deduced most of them. You gave me your physical description and shopping habits because I asked. You told me about your sexual habits _because I asked_! You never volunteered more than you had to! As for your experiences in Iraq, it's clear you are in pain and need help –"

"How dare you even mention -! Just more data, is that what it was, when I told you about Lizzy -"

"- a man – a man who is clearly depressed, who needsto form relationships, yet barricades himself in his bedsit, avoiding contact -"

" _Stop it. Stop it now -_ "

"- and who screens himself behind phone calls and fantasies for people who _don't care, they don't care about you, John!_ They _forget_ about you the moment you disconnect the call! I don't forget, John, I think about you, and you have this chance, you feel the connection! And instead you say you don't trust it! You push it away, you are withdrawing from real contact, from me -"

"I feel, I felt _something_ , but I can't trust it because _I can't trust you!_ I was nothing but a social experiment to you, so don't tell me I should trust you!"

"You're pulling away, you are afraid to meet me, even to confront me... "

"Don't you say that. Don't you ever -"

"And me – I've met people, they are attracted to what they think is the real me. But I know that I can't return their feelings because they don't _see_ me. _You do._ You're right, I've barriers, but you've got through, John! Why is that?"

"I don't believe it. I don't believe you!"

"John, you say you feel like like you don't belong, that the only colour you see is in dreams about the war. I can help _,_ I can show you, you don't want to be with me, fine, but if you work with me -"

"Who says I want to be part of your _work_?"

"You'd be perfect, John, you could be my assistant and sometimes there's danger, you'll feel alive again -"

"Your work, your _fucking work_ that turns you into a _robot_ and takes precedence over everything and everyone, Christ, there's an incentive!"

"God, _god,_ why is this going all wrong, _nothing works_ , feelings are wrong and words never do any good, they get in the way!"

"Oh, by all means, Hugh! Convince me that you – _you_ \- have feelings for me now!"

" _John. Don't._ Don't say that to me. Because... because... "

"You can't even admit it, can you? Even to yourself."

"Fine. You are right. _I don't understand people,_ I don't understand relationships, does that make you happy? I fail, I failed at them because I didn't understand and I didn't care to, I didn't care _enough._ I cut myself off. But you, John, you – you are the same, you've got these shields up too. We are alike. We are the same, and we have a chance not to be cut off, to really connect - "

"You talk as if it's my only chance, as if without you my life will never be the same. My life - as fucked up as it is - is _fine_ and I just want to put this whole fucking thing behind me, all your calls. I... I just want to forget you."

"Shut up shut up _shut up_! John, you idiot, that's impossible – you said the past haunts us, and just look at the war, it's still with you! You can't just leave this behind, you _can't_... You wouldn't do that. Just... remove us from your mind. _Erase_ me."

"The war was _real,_ it actually happened, I have the _scars_ to prove it. You're not real, you're just a voice, and it should be easy _._ Hugh. _Hugh._ What do I really know about you? Nothing. Who are you? What's your name? Where do you live? What are your habits? What do you do?"

"Why are you being deliberately dense? You said you know me, don't lie to yourself! You know _everything_ that's really important about me, _you_ know _me._ And I - I can't even define you! You are responsible. Educated. Intelligent. Perceptive. Astute. Full of pain, forthright, suicidal, distrustful, sincere _maddening brave stubborn strong damaged honourable displaced humorous sympathetic amazing._ I think... you are amazing. God, I'm no goodat this, I can't define what my connection to you is, but I know... that I want to understand you more, I want to know you, _don't you understand why can't I say this right -!_ "

" _Don't_... why can't you – god god _god!_ What are you trying to do to me, you don't get to say that, you don't get to change the rules like this, I can't -!"

" _John._ I want to know... if you are as interesting, as challenging, as good in person as you are on the phone. I want to -"

"Stop, stop it right now. _Jesus, you are killing me._ _Stop it_. I don't know, I just don't kn -"

**BEEEeeeeeeeep**

"John? Are you there? Talk to me."

..

" _JOHN!"_


	18. Iniuriarum - Injuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reactions - post Call 3.

John's breath came in fast pants as he tried to regain control. Not a panic attack, no, just... burning anger. And pain – it literally felt like there was a dark spot on his heart, a bruised contusion that ached with each beat. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe steadily, but damn it, his leg hurt and his neck muscles were like wood and he was so fucking _angry_ that his hands were shaking with the need to do something. Punch a wall. Find Hugh and punch _him_ until this confusion of feelings went away... or just seize him close and feel the solidity of another body against his own, and wa _sn't that surprising, control hanging by thread, fight or flight, haven't felt that since..._

 _  
_

_You don't get to do that, Hugh, you can't say things like that to me, you're not allowed to tell me you think I'm amazing, not after what you did -_

 _  
_

His computer bleeped, and he opened his eyes. A chat box was blinking at him. Melissa.

 

  

  * -John? Are you there? [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Yes. What happened? [JWatson]
  

  * -Bad credit card. Probably stolen. Got him on hold at the moment – idiot's pretty eager, called back as soon as we cut him off. I'll be having a word, don't worry. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -I see. [JWatson]
  



 

John's head bowed, heavy beneath this final blow. _Of course._ To make the day perfect. He swallowed thickly. This – this was better, in a way. Knowing that Hugh lied about even this made it – easier. John needn't worry that he hadn't done the right thing in turning Hugh down. But, oh, god – for a moment his resolve had wavered... That voice, sounding so sincere, so desperate, "John. I want to know if you are as interesting, as challenging, as good in person as you are on the phone... "

 _Hugh... You sick bastard. You really tried everything on me, didn't you? If I'm ever unlucky enough to meet you someday, I hope I can do you over as badly as you've done me, twist you up the way you have me. Oh, Christ, why me, why this, why today, today, this fucking day... !_

 _  
_

  

  * -John. Are you all right? We won't be accepting any more calls from him. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Yes. Yes. Good. I'm fine. [JWatson]
  

  * -Are you able to finish the rest of your shift? You've only another hour. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Yes, of course. [JWatson]
  

  * -I'm sorry now that he kept calling you. But he's gone now. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Yes. [JWatson]
  

  * -He seemed quite fixated. Don't let it bother you, John, you weren't to know. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -No. How could I? [JWatson]
  

  * -Ah. Stiff upper lip. Good man. You are a true professional. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Thank you, M. [JWatson]
  

  * -I'm glad we've had you as long as we did. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -I'm not going to quit. [JWatson]
  

  * -Yes you are. Not today. You are too polite for that. But soon. I never quite understood how we got so lucky with you. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Thank you. [JWatson]
  

  * -… He really got to you, didn't he. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Yes. [JWatson]
  

  * -Forget him. [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Do my best. [JWatson]
  

  * -Right. I can give a little breathing space before your next call. Caller ID, M.G.66. Are you sure? [MelissaXX]
  

  * -Yes. And – thanks M. [JWatson]
  

  * -Three minutes. [MelissaXX]
  



 

John gripped the edge of the table, closing his eyes and trying to breathe steadily, feeling the chill of the space around him. Afraid to open his eyes and see the emptiness, the drab faded colour of the walls, bed, the world, _his life..._

 _No._ Clutch the table's edge harder, knuckles whitening. Feel the grain of the wood, how solid and real it is. Breathe. Breathe. Draw in, in, in. You know who you are, John Watson. Try to reach out... _But that hasn't worked out so well, has it?_

 _Hugh. Nothing was true about you._

His breath hitched once on an in-drawn breath, and John fought again to regain control. He released his grip on the desk, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The phone began to ring. _Fine. I'm fine. It's fine._ But when he took his hands away and reached for the phone, his hand trembled slightly. He coughed, swallowed hard. Pressed his lips together, and connected. When he spoke, it was in a bright voice, without any tremor or thickness.

"Marcus! How are you? Wonderful. Not calling from your car again, I hope, you dreadful man. That is upsetting, you know, when you are so distracted from me..."

\------------------

 

Sherlock was standing in his flat without the memory of having moved from the sofa, breathing hard, body rigid. His high cheekbones were flushed with flags of bright crimson, his eyes blazing with baffled fury. In his hand, the plastic casing of the mobile squeaked and groaned in his grip as he mentally played back the conversation he'd just had.

 

 

"I was speaking to John and the connection was dropped. _Is he there?_ Connect me with him now!"

A voice – cold, cutting, all semblance of the accents of a sultry sex kitten gone. _Who – ah. Melissa, the 'matchmaker.'_ There was a tone of – what? Satisfaction? Disdain? _John was so much better at catching this then he was..._

"Yes, you were disconnected. This is Melissa speaking, Mr. Lestrade, or should I just call you Greg? You don't mind, do you?"

"Where's John? I must speak with him - "

"There's no 'must' about it, you don't _demand_ anything here - you are cut off. Do you understand? You've been found out."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh wait, let's just confirm this. Greg. Greg... of the identity theft? Not a … "

There was a rustle, as of a piece of paper.

"Gregory Lestrade. Lestrade of the Yard? A certain detective inspector employed by the boys in blue? Are you thick or _what,_ nicking a copper's card? I mean, really, how mundane, stealing someone's identity. Just to scam a phone sex line! Pathetic. Or are you just... unlucky?"

Sherlock was quiet. His face was rigid.

"Didn't think so. You – who ever you are – you are not welcome on these lines. I don't know your name, or what game you were playing to upset one of our best workers so badly, but if it were up to me, I would hunt you down and peel your skin off with a kitchen knife..."

"Imaginative."

"...except you'd probably like that, wouldn't you, you sick freak. Never mind. You're not worth the trouble. You're nobody."

"John – is he... all right?"

"I don't know, being that he's not a whiner or a demanding bitch, unlike _some._ I _rather_ think he isn't. I suppose it wouldn't have anything to do with a certain repeat caller, would it?"

"...Could I... ?"

"No."

"Please."

"My goodness, you _can_ speak politely."

"It's important." _John's important._

" _NO._ Piss off. And you don't get to waste any more of my time, you arrogant, abusive bastard. I'd say it's been a pleasure, but it wasn't. I never want to hear your voice on the other end of the line again. Good bye, and rot in hell, you criminal fucker."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same disclaimer as before: When I post a piece up on LJ, I post a piece here. I'm up to part 18 on LJ. I don't want to put the whole thing up here at once, because I'm afraid of losing the motivation to write, and I don't want the story to wilt as a WIP. So - that means, unfortunately for you readers, that you have to wait a few more days to see what comes next. I apologize for the inconvenience. Also the absurd LENGTH of this fic. But if it works for me, and I keep writing... *shrug*  
> Yrs, JG.


	19. Iniuriarum - Injuries Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to deal with John's rejection.

Unbelievable. Never had Sherlock been so thwarted – stupid, stupid to keep using the same card! He had only used Lestrade's to be an arse, but... He had been so stupid. Sherlock was furious. John's reaction to his explanation – surely it was excessive? The rejection cut – Sherlock's throat was tight with the memory of John's voice, angry... _pained._

 _'What do I really know about you, Hugh? Nothing.'_

Here he'd thought he'd laid out the reasons for them meet so clearly, logically. It was obvious they'd established intimacy, and they complemented each other intellectually. All that remained was for them to meet, and verify the truth about the other.

 _'I don't quite trust you.'_

John had said no. No. No, he didn't want to know Hugh – know _Sherlock_. That – that made him... made him feel – and nothing had worked!

 _'You – thinking you understand relationships. You understand nothing.'_

John had made him lose his temper, and their odd connection had unravelled quickly. Everything Sherlock had said – wrong wrong wrong! All the ploys he'd wanted to use to convince John to meet with him had backfired.

 _'I could KILL you. You made me into some kind of EXPERIMENT.'_

Instead he'd questioned John's bravery, _a soldier's bravery - god!_ He'd pleaded with him. Tried to make him feel pity. Told him that only Sherlock thought of him when others... didn't. Didn't care. What was wrong with him, _why_ had he done that? It was all reaction and no thought! No wonder John wanted nothing more to do with him. And yet – even after all that, he'd sensed John was wavering.

 _'Stop it. STOP IT.'_

Idiot! If the call hadn't been cut off, Sherlock was sure he could have maneoevred John into a meeting. Now – now John thought the worst. _And isn't he right to, Sherlock... ?_

 _'You invested in an experiment. I hope it was worth your time.'_

Lips white, he considered the mobile in his hand for a moment. The long fingers tightened once more, then relaxed. He closed the mobile deliberately, replaced it in his jacket pocket with careful movements, and turned toward the small kitchen. Opening the fridge door, he pulled out a glass jar of hydrochloric acid in which several grisly finger bones were drifting. He shoved some dirty dishes aside on the tiny Formica-topped table and set it down. He lifted down a rack of glass slides from the cupboard, reached under the table to the chair seat where his student-grade microscope resided and thumped it on the table, rattling the glassware. Fishing the bony pieces out of the jar with cooking tongs, he carefully placed them on a cutting board, ready for sectioning. The lid went back on the jar, the jar thrust back in the fridge.

Good. He'd been wanting to run this test concerning how temperature affected the rate at which spirits of salt worked on human remains. Now then. _Put it out of your mind. Don't think about John or the call now._ He needed to do something constructive. Distract himself. Time for a fresh experiment.

 _'You're just a voice, you're not real.'_

An experiment...

 _'I just want to forget about you. Put this whole thing behind me.'_

An experi -

 _'What are you trying to do to me? You're killing me. Hugh...'_

A strange noise escaped his throat, and before his thoughts had caught up, his hands had seized the heavy weight of the microscope, lifted and smashed it on the table, the cutting board, the plates, the slide rack. Weakened bones scrunched wetly. Glass and china shards sprayed outward, showering the floor, stinging as they flew past his hands and face. Sherlock didn't notice, lips drawn back from clenched teeth, eyes narrowed to slits. The noise was horrendous, the table top cracking under the blows. It was only when the microscope stage snapped suddenly from the base and spun away, unbalancing him, that he stopped, breathing heavily. He let the instrument fall to the floor, denting the linoleum. His head was a maelstrom – _why can't he think why can't he think why can't he THINK?_

 _God. John._ There was a jagged feeling inside his chest. It felt like a shard of broken glass was lodged in his sternum, grinding with every heave of his chest.

 _Enough. Stop reacting, Sherlock. Time to analyze. What happened? What have you done? Why did you -?_

His mobile rang. It was in his hand and at his ear without conscious thought intervening.

...

..

"Sherlock. I trust I may have a moment of your time?"

" _Mycroft._ "

"Indeed, it is I. How have you been?"

"Monitoring as usual, brother? Yes, yes, I am still off the smack, now _fuck off_."

"How Anglo-Saxon we are today. I am pleased to hear your rehabilitation proceeds apace."

"I don't need -"

"But you did."

...

..

"You seem a little agitated today."

"I was bored. I was working on an... experiment. I miscalculated the results."

"Ah. How disappointing, and also unexpected for you. Well, perhaps it's an residual effect of the detox that has disrupted your usual high level of reasoning?"

"Don't patronize me, Mycroft."

"As you wish."

..

.

"So the results... of your experiment were not as you expected."

"No. I wanted... I mean, the hypotheses were unsound."

"Ah. Still. There's no reason you can't attempt it again? Take a new approach?"

"The likelihood of my attempting the same experiment again is unlikely. Impossible to... repeat it in exactly the same way."

"Interesting. Never mind, you may get the chance to work on something in a similar vein again soon. Perhaps it will show you how to correct the original problem."

"Ha."

"By the by, I did have an ulterior motive for calling."

" _Of course._ "

"While Mummy understands that we no longer need to check our stockings on Christmas morning, she does enjoy having her boys back under her roof to celebrate the season. The car will pick you up tomorrow at three."

"No!"

"You have other plans?"

"Yes, I -"

"Let's not play this childish game, Sherlock. It's non-negotiable. The festive season with family gather'd round. Homeward we must, therefore, wend."

"Not at three. That's too early. Seven."

"As you like, then."

...

..

.

"Sherlock."

"What is it _now?_ "

"I'll forestall the inevitable wrestling between your urgent need and your dislike of asking for help, by saying there's nothing I will do. Strangely, the avenues of inquiry are well-screened. Wouldn't want the Ministry to discover where I'd been... poking, anyway."

"What the hell -!"

"While not wholeheartedly approving, I _am_ happy you have a new... hobby to distract you. Your chemical addictions were becoming a real concern to me. Do please return the credit card before I need to intervene in the inevitable investigation."

" _My mobile -_! Mycroft, damn you, you interfering, overstuffed -"

* _*BEEeeep*_ *

...

..

.

Sherlock swore vehemently, snapped the phone shut and looked around his wrecked kitchen with a pale reptilian glare, fuming. With a jerk of his wrist he wrenched open the fridge, pulled the lid from the jar of acid and dropped the mobile in, capped it, and shook the contents vigorously. He slammed the jar back on the wire shelving and regarded the forlorn device. A tiny breath of satisfaction escaped him, and he closed the door.

Turning, he leaned back heavily against the fridge. His face stung, and he rubbed the back of his wrist against the worst pain and dully regarded the smear of blood revealed. There were several small cuts on his hands. He picked a tiny sliver of glass from one with a fingernail and dropped it on the floor. His knees folded, and he slid down and sat on the floor, resting his arms on his bent knees, heedless of the shards littering the floor. Eyes closed, he thumped his head none-too-gently on the metal door several times.

 _Idiot. Idiot. Everything has gone so terribly wrong. Face up to facts. It went way beyond an experiment. Why did you do it? Are you determined to destroy in some fashion every relationship you might ever have?_ With a pang, he recalled John's voice. "Said the scorpion to the frog..."

Sherlock remembered the story, one of a few from his childhood he still recalls. A frog offered to carry the scorpion on its back over a river despite its misgivings. 'Trust me,' said the scorpion. 'Why would I do something that would mean we both drowned?' The frog reluctantly agreed to help, but midstream the arachnid stung the frog anyway. As they both sank under the water to their doom, the dying frog asked only, "Why?"

 _Because it's my nature,_ thought Sherlock miserably, and buried his face in his bleeding hands.


	20. London Dating - It's a war out there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: this part of the fill is mostly gratuitous - you can probably safely skip it. Also, in case you started reading way back when I started posting here, the first time Sherlock called John was December 14th, after getting irritated with message board wars on relationship theories. Below, the thread. So please do take note of the message dates. Alternatively, skip ahead for Sherlock and John.
> 
> To be honest I would have loved having readers weigh in with their own opinions, role-playing along. Oh well. Would have been SO fun.

**Welcome to London Dating, the site for putting 'relate' into relationships!**

 

 **  
**

**kittypink** (2009/11/27) writes: **Finding the One**  
It's like 'The Rules' say, ladies. There are times when it's best your partner finds out *later* what you are really like. You can't be yourself - time to pretend to be someone better, nicer, better dressed! Why? They can't handle the truth! So put on the slap, your best togs and show us your game face. 'Cuz it's war, and you need some tactics if you want to find and win the prize.

 **QTdaMighty** (2009/11/28) : War. God is it ever. Time for that diet...

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/12/8) writes: I noticed this thread and wanted to comment. "The Rules" are an antiquated set of notions regarding the best way to find a mate. Really. 'Be a creature unlike any other?' Aside from the fallacy of being a 'creature', I would advise against what you propose. Be yourself - otherwise you are setting yourself up for unpleasantness. How can any partner be pleased with someone who has blatantly deceived them from the start? Also - you may want to consider your use of metaphor - I spent some time deciphering your message.

 **AltogthrNow** (2009/12/8) writes: Plz. No one wants to see the 'real' you on a first meeting, much less the first date! Your partner wants to know you're making an effort - otherwise you look like you don't care what he or anyone else thinks!

 **kittypink** (2009/12/8) writes: Excuse ME grammar Nazi. BTW, I only meant you have to look your best. And 'The Rules' say you should act kind, mysterious. Play a small role to keep him on the line. After you are married and sure of his love, then you can reveal yourself bit by bit.

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/12/10) writes: While I'll be the first to admit I enjoy mysteries, there are too many problems inherent in what you propose. I pity the person who is trapped by such ploys. Also, I was not correcting your grammar, merely questioning your phrase choice. Very idiomatic.

 **tall-dark &clever** (2009/12/10) writes: **Truth in Relationships.**  
To clarify what I am saying: In order for your relationship to be successful, it is self-evident that you be as forthcoming as possible before entering a commitment. Too often people who have some character defect enter a relationship without disclosing it to their partner. This is a mistake. If something is not right about you — you think you've got a bad trait or characteristic — it's going to come out eventually. You might as well be honest from the beginning.

 **kittypink** (2009/12/10) writes: So you ought to be honest about your defects from the beginning eh? Then why "tall-dark&clever"? Shouldn't you be "fat-ugly&obnoxious" in that case? Hypocritical berk.

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/12/10) writes: There is no hypocrisy in my user name.

 **kittypink** (2009/12/10) writes: *eyeroll* Likely story.

 **Angel43** (2009/12/10) writes: FFS, God knows we've all got our problems. But don't put them out there right away! You have to lure them in with the good stuff first :-) Later you'll know if they can deal with your 'issues', or vice versa!

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/12/11) writes: You should not distort yourself to attract others, you are only lying to yourself if you do. Apparently the bulk of the female population willingly does so.

 **Angel43** (2009/12/11) writes: WTF? Noone is perfect at first sight, so why shouldn't we try a little harder? Do you hate women? Is that your problem?

 **Xirtam** (2009/12/11) writes: JFC since when did dressing up nice and being considerite = hiding defects and trapping with ploys? Your a piece of work, td&c. I doubt you would like the 'real thing' if you met it. I'd hate to see you on a date. I'd hate to run into you even casuallly in RL! Wanker.

 **Anonymous** (2009/12/11) writes: Dont feed teh troll. Don't pet it. Just don't. lol

 **whotoseek** (2009/12/12) writes: I think that TD&C and kittypink both have good points and they don't have to be in disagreement. KP says you have to be your best to find someone and TD&C says you have to be honest about yourself, even your faults before you commit to a relationship. I think you can be at your best in the beginning and then come to gradually know each other's flaws. Before you need to commit you'll have learned what you need to know!

 **AltogthrNow** (2009/12/12) writes: How's that fence you're sitting on? Comfy? Mind if I join? *pulls out bag of popcorn*

 **whotoseek** (2009/12/12) writes: *takes some popcorn* Ta! Anyway, to continue. You seem to be addressing women exclusively td&c - but the fact is, men are just the same. And when it comes to relationships there are times when hope overcomes reason, and we just want to it to happen.

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/12/12) writes: The level of hypocrisy continues to amaze me. You deceive your partner, who wants to be deceived and is therefore deceiving him or herself? Is that correct? Does anyone else see the problem here? I myself would despise such equivocation.

 **kittypink** (2009/11/13) writes: You are the hypocrite! You have no clue about what makes a relationship do you!

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/11/13) writes: I know how relationships fail.

 **Anonymous** (2009/11/13) writes: OMG U 2 R so cute! kittypink and TD&C stop flirting already and get a room! Tee-hee ;D

 **tall-dark &clever**(2009/12/13) writes: ... I have no words for this.

 **kittypink** (2009/12/14) writes: PISS OFF

 **bamboolkr** (2009/12/14) writes: Typical useless internet convo - Can we move on to something more useful?

 **tall-dark &clever **(2009/12/14) writes: I'm willing to test the opposite viewpoint. I don't think I'm wrong, however.

 **Angel43** (2009/12/14) writes: You do that. Alternatively, EADSU you arse.

 **Bamboolkr** (2009/12/15) writes: Eat a dick... ?

 **Angel43** (2009/12/15) writes: Straight up.

 **Anonymous** (2009/12/16) writes: LOL good one!

 **kittypink** (2009/12/18) writes: Is that all? No witty comebacks? Where R U, squat-stupid&hypocritical?

 **Anonymous** (2009/12/21) writes: Thank GOD. What an arse.

 **tall-dark &clever** (2009/12/24) writes: ***Edit* Truth in Relationships**

The premise that one can present oneself to a potential partner with the intention of deceiving them in order to begin a relationship *is* plausible. However keep in mind that honesty is and continues to be the best policy in relationships. There are those who will definitely not appreciate your prevarication, no matter what kind, no matter your intentions.

But to maintain and deepen the relationship? It _cannot be done._ There will be inevitable upheaval and emotional distress when your lack of candour is found out. _So again, be honest from the beginning._ Otherwise, you will find yourself in a trap of your own devising, as I did.

If one has established a connection with another person under these circumstances, my congratulations! You've both managed a mutual level of oblivious self-deception unparalleled in the history of human relations! Even _I_ was not able to - john john damn it damn it DAMN IT FFFfffdsaZDXS idiot

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\------------------

 

Sherlock shut his laptop with a firm click, mouth tight. There was no time to address the problem - _no, not a problem, John is not a problem. Not an experiment._ But he needed to analyse what had happened, and better - how to proceed. Sherlock couldn't let it go, let John go like that. _Interesting. Unprecedented._ But again - no time. He had to deal with a 'happy' Christmas gathering with Mummy and Mycroft first - the inevitable aggravation and copious amounts of food forced upon him upset his thinking for days. Ah, well.

Be that as it may. Sherlock thrust his laptop into his overnight bag and leaned back against the sofa cushions, pressing his palms together. _John. Why?_ He pressed the tips of his fingers between his brows into the frown line that appeared. A knock at the door interrupted his reverie and he gritted his teeth. Later. He picked up his bag, the violin (Mummy enjoyed having her boys play traditional Christmas pieces together), and strode out.


	21. Ut Noceret Mihi - Hurts Me

**Thursday, December 24th, 2009**

 **  
**

"John? John, I am so sorry."

John fiddled with his cup of coffee, turning it a bit on the tabletop. He looked up from under his brows at his sister, who was looking small, huddled up in her seat. John had agree to meet her at this café because she had insisted. The tone of her voice, so shamed, so - defeated, had pierced the smothering depression that had covered him since yesterday.

"Well?" he asked, not unkindly. He knew her usual pattern. God knew he wished he didn't. "What was all that about then? When you called?"

"I didn't mean to... be cruel, I know you try to be there for me. I was just... "

"Out of it. I know."

Her pale face scrunched in acknowledgement. God, she looked dreadful, worse than she normally did after a binge. Her blond hair was lank, her skin translucent and bruised with tiredness. Not just a hangover, then.

"I was just... acting out."

"For god's sake, Harry. I know that. What happened?"

To his horror, a tear ran down her face, to be quickly swiped away. "It was... I saw Clara. She was out having dinner with - with another woman. I mean, I know I was the one that left, but... " She looked up at him, hazel eyes direct and wounded. "I think... I think I made a mistake."

"Oh, god. Harry." He covered her hand with his, and squeezed.

"Look at me, I'm a mess. I've screwed it up. I couldn't stop drinking, and I let it pull us apart. Why am I such a fucking mess?" Harry's voice quavered, and John abruptly dragged his chair closer to hers and gathered her into his arms, pulling her head against his shoulder. He rested his head against the top of hers, hair ticking his cheek, and rubbed her back.

"Sh. Harry. Harry... Don't take on so. Sh. Sh."

She trembled, and snuffled back the tears. Her voice was a thread of sound but attempted to be light-hearted. "Of all the things I've thrown away, I'm glad you at least got the phone out it."

He chuckled because it was expected and needed. "True. Thank you again, Harry. If you ever want it back -"

She pulled free, rubbing her eyes. "No. I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this."

"Do you want to?"

"I want to not feel like my life is out of my control, John." She smiled, and it hurt him to see it, because he knew how it was to have a face that smiled and smiled while you were dying inside, a mask between you and the world. "And... I want to have Christmas dinner with my brother tomorrow."

John blinked. "Uh... my place?"

She snorted. "Not bloody likely. Mine. Five o'clock be all right? Bring some Christmas crackers, that'll cheer me up."

He smiles. "Perfect."

She sighed, and her gaze was distant. "I think she loves.. loved me, John, but I couldn't trust it, trust her to stick it out. So I sabotaged it. I drove her away."

John felt a twinge, but nods understanding.

"Why do we do the things that hurt us most? How did I ever end up like this, John?"

He said nothing, only gripped her shoulder, squeezing gently.

 _I know. I know how you feel._

 

 _\-------------------_

 **Sunday, December 27th, 2009**

 _  
_

A deep voice shouted something incomprehensible in a rude tone, but Lestrade took it as an invitation to enter Sherlock's small flat. He pushed open the door, and his face twisted up. The room was dim with smoke, the smell of cigarettes thick in the air. Coughing, eyes squinting, he moved past the prone figure on the sofa and pushed up the window.

"Christ, Sherlock, it's toxic in here! How the hell can you breathe?"

"Breathing? Overrated. Close the window, you're letting in a draft."

Lestrade eyed him in bemused irritation. "Put some bloody clothes on, man. It's three in the afternoon. Why are you still in your dressing gown?"

A languid hand waved a cigarette at him. "Not going out. Busy."

"Busy? Doing what?"

"Thinking."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his head, and blew out a breath. Christ. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Every encounter gave him three more grey hairs, Lestrade was sure. The man was staring at the ceiling as if all the answers he had ever desired were written thereupon. His gaze was so intense, Lestrade half-expected the smoke came from where the man's gaze seared the cheap ceiling tiles.

"For the love of... You better not be using again, Sherlock..."

The pale eyes flicked to him, then up again. "Don't be stupid." The voice was cool and dismissive. Lestrade scowled.

"I came here to collect something you took, you shit."

There was no reaction from the pale-faced figure, aside from a hand curving up to his lips. Dragging deeply on the cigarette, Sherlock blinked slowly, but didn't look at the DI. Lestrade's temper flared.

"Took me about a week to notice my card was gone. For Christ's sake, Sherlock -! My credit company said you'd been calling -"

"A gay phone sex line."

"A phone sex..." Lestrade's ears were beginning to feel hot. "You called - excuse me. What?"

" _Gay. Phone. Sex. Line._ Are you incapable of understanding even single syllable words?"

 _Too much information, Sherlock!_ thinks Lestrade. _Didn't need to know that about you, thank you!_

"Yes, all right! You... Never mind. You called... a gay... a phone sex line. Four times. _Four... times!_ For... I don't even want to get into the charges. Sherlock, what the hell -!"

"It's over there."

Lestrade looked where the thin hand gestured, seeing a brown envelope stuck to the door frame between kitchen and living area. Suppressing a sigh, he walked over. It was stuck to the woodwork with... he eyed the flesh-toned thing.

"Is this a nicotine patch?"

"No. Detox. Told you I was clean."

Lestrade carefully pulled the envelope free, glancing beyond into the kitchen as he did so. He paused. The kitchen was a disaster area - cupboard doors flung open, shards of glass glinting, the table top split open, deep dents in its surface. He turned to Sherlock. "Your kitchen. What happened?"

"It's not important. I'll be looking for a new flat regardless. The window, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade was beginning to feel wrong-footed. He'd come here to deal with Sherlock, who behaved more often like a recalcitrant child than a grown man in his thirties. But instead of having a good long shout and getting his frustration at Sherlock's antics out of his system, Lestrade was getting worried. Sherlock's tendencies towards self-destructive behaviour weren't unfamiliar to the Inspector.

"You're not going mad on me, are you?" Lestrade's tone was meant to be humorous, but it came out sounding more concerned. He wrinkled his brow.

A deep sigh of utter distilled boredom was his only answer.

"Fine. As long as you're sure." Lestrade moved to close the window with an emphatic thump. He pulled a pen from a pocket, and used the tip to slit open the envelope. Within was his cancelled credit card, along with a wad of five pound notes. Far too many to cover the charges that were made to his credit line. He shook his head. He knew Sherlock well enough not to expect an apology.

"Are you even going to explain? Why? Well, not that, none of my business, I guess but - no, never mind. You know what? I do want to know. What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?"

Sherlock's hand froze mid-way to bringing the cigarette to his lips again, the smoke drifting into his tousled curls. Abruptly he reached down to a mug lying beside the sofa that was over-flowing with cigarette butts. He ground the smouldering cigarette out with a vicious twist. "Something regrettable."

Lestrade half-laughed. "You? Regret anything? You're putting me on."

The fever-bright eyes rested on him for a second, the full mouth twisted, and then Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling.

And that was all that Lestrade got from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> When I put a piece up on LJ, I also edit, clean, and put a bit here.
> 
> It occurs to me that I should apologize for the brevity of certain chapters. I don't know, I don't mean to make the work look extra long and important by having lots of chapters. If it feels like a natural break, I just do it. But when I look at other people who throw down 3000 words a chapter, I kinda... eh. Not me. Sorry!


	22. Interlude - Quaero, or Seeking (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John feels bad, and Sherlock thinks about things.

The week following Christmas found John walking. He had a lot of free time on his hands now - he'd tendered his resignation to Melissa three days following what he still thought of in his head as 'that fucking day.'

"Can't say I didn't see it coming, " she had said with a mixture of humour and resignation when he'd called. "The nature of the work. Oh, well. Turn in your licence to tease and your big gun, soldier. I'm going to miss having you."

"I'm sorry, M," he said. The nickname had been a joke between them from the start, and was probably what had started John off on the right foot in the business. Comparing Melissa to James Bond's formidable boss had pleased her, and she'd subsequently done her best to work him up to the standards needed for the premium line. John remembered their first session fondly.

 

 _'You need to have a good ability to pick up verbal cues, and an exceptional imagination.'  
'I was living in the desert surrounded by blokes, guns and sand, M. Not much to do during bunk time except fantasize. Unless you were lucky, of course.'  
'Ha. Well, not that you need much work, John. You're a natural. You'll work well for women, though the bulk of your customers will be men.'  
'Not a problem,' he assured her. 'It's fine with me. I'm a bit that way myself, and I fancy I know how men think.'  
'Mm. I adore your naivete. Still, you'll do, doctor, you'll do.'_

 _  
_

"I'm sorry, too," she retorted. "Sorry you've been put off by that bastard. It's down to him, really, isn't it?"

John couldn't reply. He didn't want to think of Hugh. Who ever that was.

"Damn him."

"It's not all him, really," John hastened to reassure her. "I... I've come to understand that doing this job - well, I need to get out more. Try to make contact with people outside the phone lines."

"I see."

"Besides, I've learned a few things. About people-reading. It's been good, really," he said with half-smile.

"Not to mention the useful skill off getting people off using your voice." she said, succumbing to his jovial tone. "Put that on your C.V.! John Watson, doctor of love. Porn whisperer of phone-sex."

He laughed. "I'll end up on crap telly if I do that! My next career move."

She chuckled throatily. "I'd watch. You'd be great. Men would turn spontaneously gay for you."

"Ha! Flatterer. No thanks. I'm better in audio, not full colour."

"If you say so. John... Really. I wasn't sure what to expect when you said Lizzy had put you on to us. And I don't know why, not my business. But... It's been a privilege. That's not something I say often, in this job. Considering the job."

"M. The honour was mine. Thanks... for taking me in."

"Take care, John."

"You too, M."

 

The interval of time spent as a phone-sex operator had been good for him financially at least. He had a bit laid by, which was coming in useful. London was expensive. But now, the days and hours and minutes stretched ahead, empty and featureless. He dreaded them, almost as much as nights and the accompanying dreams.

He would overcome this. He would not admit that Hugh was right, that John was not able to face the world. _A coward._ He would not sit in his colourless bedsit staring at the blinking cursor on his blog. God, god how it made him burn, made him loathe Hugh - that for a short time, there had been a lovely burst of colour, like a drop of bright ink dropped on blotting paper and spreading outwards like a bloom. And... and yes, fine he was afraid - afraid that the fading was inevitable, and he would be once again that irrelevant ghost of the man he'd been when he'd come home. Irretrievably damaged.

And so he was out here, walking stick in hand again, walking the streets of London. After he'd had an appointment at the clinic near Russell Square, he'd limp out, face set and attempt to out-distance the growing sense of futility he felt. Park to park - Russell Square Gardens, to Regent's Park, or through Bloomsbury Square down to the Embankment. Facing forward, hardly looking to the side - just walking.

Evenings were better, though. Evening, and nights - nights when he'd woken sweating with a strangled noise in his throat and the colours of war bursting behind his lids. No bloody point in sleeping, those nights. Time to get out, escape the bland flat. Stride ahead of the bleaching effect, stave it off as long as possible.

On his second night walk, a rough character had stopped him, asking for change. The assessing look the man had had - _potential victim? Was this unassuming man with a walking stick likely to be trouble?_ had jarred John. His heart had thumped, then picked up its pace, a jolt of adrenalin filling him. He'd smiled, and whatever the man had seen on John's face had given him pause, for he'd backed down, turned away with a mutter and a sneer. And that... had felt good. Very good indeed.

So good did it feel that the following evening he'd taken a night bus out to Hackney for a good stroll. With the eyes of youths following him, sizing him up, the tingle he felt was... home-like, really. Quiet streets and the chill seeping through his coat made him nostalgic. The edge of danger covered him like a heavy coat, one he'd worn before. Familiar. Comforting.

This, John, decided, was good. Better for him than the damned therapist. Better than staying in that flat until one day he pulled open the drawer and... _No, John. You've been there before. Don't think about it. Don't think about thinking it._

Don't think. Just move past this. The path is clear. All you have to do is keep walking forward, until -

 

\-------

 

Sherlock sat at the cracked kitchen table hunched over his computer. Outside, London was quiet at this hour of the early morning. His face, lit by the blue monitor in the otherwise dark flat was focused, his eyes dipping and skimming over the text. The pointer swooped. Click. New search. New tab. The keys rattled. Next to him lay a crumpled cigarette pack and a saucer of butts. He no longer needed the focus the nicotine gave him - he had his course of action set: _find John_. From there all else must follow.

Following his return from the Christmas holiday with Mycroft and his mother, he had settled himself in for a period of reflection with provisions laid in. Tea. A carton of cigarettes. Some takeaway resting in the fridge next to the mobile swirling in its bath of acid. He needed to think. Stop reacting. What happened? Difficult, so difficult to analyse his choices and decisions. The thoughts had swirled, twined - a helix of emotion and logic - well, _supposed_ logic. He hated the confusion the memories engendered.

 

His thoughts:

 _Message board / stupid HARPIES / truth is best for relationships, surely this is self-evident? / To do - Test hypothesis: false start leading to relationship possible? / Call a sex line / Get JOHN._

 **Call 1** \- Collect data [succumb unexpectedly to arousal]

 _/ interesting / John how did you know / how could you guess what to say? /_

 _.  
_

 **Call 2** \- Begin to establish a relationship. Exchange personal anecdotes.

[Experiment proceeding perfectly. Need to verify data. Must meet John in person.]

Challenge - talk John (and incidentally myself) through orgasm

 _/ God / john / john / john's arousing noises /_

 **FOCUS**

 **.  
**

 _/ he knows me so well /_

 _.  
_

 **Call 2.5** \- Interrupted call. No new information gained.

[ Why did I call? ]

[ **Note:** scientific detachment lost from this point on. Am now personally invested in outcome of the experiment. **Mistake.** ]

 _/ how is it possible / what happened / how does he know me so well /_

 _/ he sees parts of me no one knows / how john how /_

 _.  
_

 **Call 3** \- Exchange of confidences. Relationship is established. Physical meeting requested.

 _/ surely i can ask to meet / I want to meet you john / don't you want to meet me /_

[Answer: **no**.]

 _/ no / no? / **NO!** / i can't believe you don't want to meet / I will MAKE you see that we should meet /_

 **New Goal:** Use manipulative tactics to influence and/or change his decision [and behaviour and emotions]

 _/ god why did i ever think this was a good idea / hate my brain / why / why /_

 _**FOCUS** _

_**.  
** _

Manipulative levers used on John - TRUTH (he wanted it!). LOGIC. GUILT. ENTICEMENT. FLATTERY.

[Additional tactics: question John's courage. Call for his compassion] ( _for you, you don't deserve compassion Sherlock_ )

[Pleading.]

.

[Answer reiterated: **NO**.]

 _/ God john / don't say that / we MUST meet / we are the same / underneath where it counts we are the same / you can't! /  
_

 _.  
_

 **[You gave him the truth but not the whole truth.]**

 **.  
**

 _/ john you are right not to trust me / I am false /  
_

 _/ from the beginning I deceived myself and you /_

 _/ you are right about me / but I am right about you /_

 _/ we are the same /_

 _  
_

**Fact** \- that is what happened. A more hideous, tangled mess he has never encountered ( _god it was so much simpler when you held yourself above it all, Sherlock!)_ but he has the end of the thread now.

Next - why did it go wrong?

 

 _Keep it simple, Sherlock. John has rightly pointed out you are poor at rationalizing people. I am an idiot. So - compile a suitable list for idiots._

Sherlock stood up and stalked from kitchen to living room and back in aggravation, hands twitching at his sides. Normally his thought processes required stillness, but the recollection of his conclusions made him... uncomfortable. He had been a bloody fool from start to finish, and the memory made him _itch._

He rubbed his temples, and visualized one of those books, the books with the annoying scribble character and yellow and black cover: ' _For Dummies._ ' In his mind's eye, he opened it, and began reading, clenching his jaw.

Right, then.

 **  
**

**Welcome! We sincerely hope that you the reader enjoy - well, not enjoy, but the very least learn something from the following:**

 **1\. You were right.** Honesty was and is best. The experiment was flawed, though you could never have anticipated John. You had expected only to confirm your personal theory about honesty and thumb your nose at the women on the relationship site. It was childish. Once you started down that path, using _John_ as your subject, the end was inevitable.

 **2\. You were wrong.** You thought you understood relationship and people, that provoking the appropriate responses would be simple. You might have avoided the painful denouement if you had manipulated John a little better - for example, brought him 'round to asking you to meet, and not pressed him on a 'bad day'. _Stop there, Sherlock. No. Thinking such a thing, and trying to manipulate John had been Bad Ideas._ **Edit** \- you never understood John.

 **3.** (a) **You are an idiot.**

(b) **John is an idiot too.**

(c) **We are both hypocrites. Also possibly cowards.**

 **4\. You are not to be trusted.** From John's point of view, all your motives, everything you'd told must be considered invalid. Particularly when capped with the business of the stolen card. _Would John still be paid for his time -?_ _Irrelevant now, Sherlock. Focus!_

 **5\. Your timing is terrible.** You pushed at the wrong time. You may have caused a man who has trust issues, battle scars and recent grief even more harm. This... Isn't Good _. Let's not go into why you are so interested in meeting him - too distracting._

 **That about covers your absolute stupidity and arrogance. MORON.**

But - there is absolutely some connection between us. Damaged now, thanks to your idiocy and John's stubbornness. Is the situation irreparable? Can it be... _God. Was Mycroft was right? I hate that!_

Can it be approached again from a different direction?

 **Yes/No** \- _need more data._

 **Conclusion** \- Must find John. _Obviously. All else must follow this._

 

 

Sherlock mentally binned the yellow and black book in his head and dropped heavily back into his seat in front of the computer. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands, a virtuoso ready to employ his best techniques. He placed his fingers back on the keyboard.

 _What are the concrete facts on John?_ Not many. A first name. Army service - RAMC. Has some type of injury necessitating a disability pension. Visits a clinic. Takes the Tube to get to said clinic. Has a friend named Murray. Had a friend named Lizzy who worked at phone sex and was also with the RAMC. Carries a walking stick.

 _Variables_ \- Lives in or around London - where? Appearance - average?

 _Challenging, this search._ First up - Lizzy. Women killed in action abroad were a rare enough occurrence that it was likely to be news story. Several minutes later, he'd pulled up some results. Corporal Elizabeth McKane, age 26, member of the RAMC. Died in IED explosion along with four other in the light-armoured Snatch Land Rover on route to Camp Bastion from Lashkar Gah, Helmand province. Her family had issued a statement saying, 'We wish to say that we are extremely proud of Lizzy, and heart-broken she will not be able to pursue her dream of becoming a doctor. She was committed to her work with the Army. She had a fantastic life and lived it to the fullest extent. No one could have been more loved, or will be more sorely missed, by family and friends.'

Mm. Sherlock book-marked the page. He may need to interview the parents, if other avenues of investigation were blocked. They may not know John, but could put him on to others who did.

Another news page was scrutinized - more relevant, and troublesome: following the withdrawal of British troops from Iraq, she'd been on a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Which left him with another question - when had she worked with John? When had John received his injury? More importantly, where - Afghanistan or Iraq? _Narrow the parameters._

 _That._ Quickly he opened several more tabs. Though MI5 disliked serving men and women in the Armed Forces using social media due to the way it disseminated information about possible Army activity, it was impossible to suppress. Ah. Here's someone. Geo-tagged - in the Middle East. _Idiot._

Search strings flowed under his fingers, reaching like thirsting roots towards a stream of data. Looking for John. Search: _medic RAMC McKane regiment Murray Iraq Afghanistan John casualties.._. Facebook, blogs, personal journals of soldiers both returned and abroad. He connected, typed up a few quick email queries, posing as an old friend of a friend who needed to get in contact with John, _you remember John? Good friend of Lizzy McKane's? It's important..._ He kept it vague and friendly, harmless. There. Wait for some replies - these could take time.

Next search parameter to consider - John was in England. Where? Sherlock's fingers flew again - _therapists physio trauma PTSD CBT specialist London veteran clinic..._ Too many results. He considered the network he had amongst the street people. Should he tell them to keep an eye out for a man in his thirties with a walking stick going to a clinic? Who may or may not have light brown hair...? No. Not worth the investment, too many variables. How to narrow it down...?

 _God._ He leaned back in the old vinyl-covered chair, legs splayed out under the scarred table. Finding John would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Frustrated, he rubbed his hands furiously through his hair, then let them drop to dangle limply at his sides. _I hate this I hate this brain buzzing can't stop..._

A voice, firm, clear and gentle slid through his head. _But look at what you can do, you're so good at it, you're brilliant._ Sherlock's eyes closed, and his head tilted back. Better. How had he not known he needed this? A voice... _that_ voice in the dark, speaking into his ear. John, standing behind him, watching. _Your brain – you can obviously keep up with huge amounts of data._ The corners of his mouth pulled in. He imagined the scene: himself, seated in rumpled glory at the kitchen table. A hand softly touching his head. _So clever._

 _You feel my hand, don't you? I'm combing my fingers through your hair, lifting the curls and twining them in my fingers. Just relax, relax. I'm with you. I lift and and comb, lift and comb, then I run the backs of my fingers down, slowly... tracing the rim of your ear, the sensitive skin behind, down the line of your jaw... and off. And again, I want to feel the shapes and angles of your face, the skin taut over your bone and muscle. So brilliant, this head under my hands. With my left hand I am rubbing the fingertips down the muscle of the side of your neck, so fine and soft, I just want to nip it. But not yet._

'John,' thought Sherlock. 'Like the first time. Show me how intelligent you are...'

 _I trace my forefinger down your forehead, down the line of your nose - nasal root, bone, lateral nasal cartilage, over and dipping into the philtrum - did you know, of course you know that 'philtrum' means love potion? I'd love to touch it with my tongue, that little dent... my finger tracing first your labium_ _superius, then the inferius, around and around your mouth,so oft, catching on the skin of that bottom lip... that mouth. Your mouth..._

Sherlock's breath caught, and he raised a hand to his face, trembling slightly. In his mind, a warm tenor was murmuring, a tangible presence, the breath of John stirring the air next to his head. Here in the dark, with him.

 _That's it, I'm cupping your jaw in my right hand, my left hand tracing your clavicle. My forefinger presses against your lower lip, curling it down slightly. Yes, that's it, that's good, the way your tongue darted out to lick it, tasting the salty skin. I press my finger inward more, between your teeth, just like that, that. You are so good at this. God, I love the noise of that, I would love to hear that sound with your mouth wrapped around my cock. I step up closer behind you, your head resting against my body, and I pull my wet finger out, dragging that moistness down - over that lip, your chin, your throat. Beautiful. I rest both hands against your jaw, and tilt it up, as I bend down..._

Sherlock's head drooped back.. His face was smooth, his mouth slightly parted and damp from sucking on his finger. His breath fluttered.

 _God, you want this, don't you. Your head, so silent and peaceful. Just you and I, together. I press my mouth against yours, and my mouth moves on yours, as I say -_

\- I could kill you. Hugh. _You're killing me.-_

With an indrawn gasp, Sherlock's eyes flew open. He released a shuddering breath, damp hand sliding down his chest to lie in his lap near the bulge in his tight trousers. His head fell back even more, and he squeezed his eyes closed. _No good. He's gone. He was never here_. A spasm crossed his face, and he fisted his hands, before jerking his body upright and reaching for the keyboard again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos unto Brit beta red_chapel, general story beta alltoseek, and idea ping-pong partner pollymal. Wouldn't be half as good without you! You all are the base of the the thing.


	23. Interlude - Quaero, or Seeking (Part 2)

**Thursday, January 14th, 2010**

John's eyes flew open and he twisted, chest heaving, hands scrabbling at sheet and mattress before he realized he was awake and safe. His muscles quivered, then loosened in relief, and he sagged back into the tangled cocoon of blankets and sheets. _Christ._ That had been... not exactly unexpected, no. He often had nightmares. He would relive the strange absence of sound, the sudden tearing pain that surrounded the impact of that damned bullet. The one shot that had taken part of his shoulder, his surgical skills and his Army career revisited him often in the grisly panoply of dreams that rotated through his unconscious mind. John concentrated on his breathing, the slow inhale through the nose, deep, until his stomach lifted under his hands. Exhale. And in.

No... no, what was new this time was the falling. He'd fallen after he'd been shot, of course he had - but in this dream it was endless, timeless, tumbling in twilight blue dimness while the panic built like a crushing pressure in his chest. On and on... and when the panic reached its height _(oh god can't fly I know I know what's coming can't stop it can't stop -)_ the ground rushing up. And then... John gusted a breath. Deliberately he pushed the image, the hollow feeling from his mind. His shoulder throbbed in sympathy, but his arm was slightly numb - he must have been resting all his weight on it while he slept. He flexed his fingers carefully, noted the fine tremor. Mm. Not a good sign.

He glanced at the clock. Four thirty. Too early to properly get up, really, but he supposed he could go for a walk, watch the sun come up. See how the dawn returned stolen colour and life to the dead grey city.

 _He might learn how it was done._

 

\------

 

 **Wednesday, January 20th, 2010**

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Sherlock's face was grim as he strode through Cavendish Square. Still too many variables in play. He'd been able to eliminate a few - some people had replied to messages online - _No, sorry, don't know the man... Oh, John Wellsley? I think he's still in Camp Bastion... Nope, sorry mate, the John I know wasn't in the RAMC, he was infantry, but do tell me more about this Lizzy bird...'_

He'd been able to contact Elizabeth McKane's parents, but they had had little to tell him. They couldn't recall any medical friend of Liz's named John - she'd had so many friends. Didn't Sherlock have a last name? What was this all about? No, they could not meet him, they were in mourning. They were not interested in talking about their beloved daughter, it was too painful. And then they'd hung up.

A call back to the sex line... Sherlock's jaw locked at the memory. His expression was so stormy that a woman who glanced at him moved quickly away as he waited for the crossing light. The abuse he'd suffered from the disagreeable woman who called herself Melissa - well. That door was well and truly closed. Locked. Welded shut. He'd not make _that_ mistake again.

In addition to his frustrating lack of progress, his flat was currently a tip, as it was being packed up for moving. It wasn't a new experience for Sherlock, being evicted. He was well aware that he was one the worst tenants in London. For some reason, the smells, the experiments and the violin playing put all of his past landlords off. He never got any of his deposits back either. He supposed that this time the eviction was down to damage done to the kitchen.

The timing was bad - he needed to be out by the end of the month. Thankfully, he had heard about a place in the Marylebone district, very central. A good acquaintance owed him a favour, and if things worked out he'd just be able to afford the rent. But the chaos, the irksome tedium of packing up his papers and equipment had driven him out. Something that he refused to recognize as a futile hope had guided his steps on a most likely fruitless quest through the area of London that was densest with medical practices. Legwork. But there was always a chance... he might overhear a voice...

Not that he thought John would really be here on posh Harley Street with its pricey private practices. On a disability pension, he was more likely to be going to an NHS clinic. But there were a few specialists that dealt with trauma - both physical and mental - here. _Still too many._ Searches of this type took time, he knew, but rarely had he been so stymied. He was grasping at straws, and it had been nearly a month since -

His mobile rang, and he quickly fished it from the pocket of his coat without breaking stride. He grimaced at the caller name, but answered.

"Sherlock."  
"Still clean."  
"I know. It is gratifying to see how you've kept yourself occupied since the detox treatment."  
"I see you've also been keeping yourself busy. How's the feed on the CCTV today?"  
"And so active! Why, the way you prowl around London - is it a new health fad?"  
"One you could benefit from, Mycroft. Consider it. Pry yourself away from the feed."  
"Oh, I don't watch you all the time."  
"Really."  
"My assistant gives me clips of the highlights."  
" _Of course._ "  
"Tell me, how goes your experiment?"  
"It's not an experiment!"  
"I am glad you understand that."

...

"No, I am still not going to assist."  
"I wasn't going to ask."  
"Yes, the absence of the question was deafening."  
"Sod off."  
"Language."  
"Mycroft, brother mine, won't you please just _fuck off._ "  
"Hm."  
"As if you care how... it goes."  
"I care, Sherlock, though you can't bear to hear it."  
"Correct. Overwrought declarations of affection don't suit you."  
"Be that as it may. What you are doing has purpose. It is good for you."  
"Spare me your concern."  
"Why you've undertaken this quest, I cannot _quite_ understand..."  
"You probably wouldn't."  
"I hope only that it's not merely selfish. By the by..."  
"What?"  
"Will you tell me? The object of your search?"  
"...John. His name is John."  
"Ah. Are congratulations in order?"  
"Keep them. Not that it's any of your business."  
"I have faith in your abilities."  
"...It's misplaced."  
"Not at all, Sherlock."

...

"Have you thought through to the consequences of actually meeting him?"  
"... Not yet. I have to find him first, then decide on the best approach."  
"Tread carefully. I'm always concerned about your affairs."  
"Yes, I know. _Spy._ "  
"Addict."  
"Ha."

 _-Click-_

Sherlock tucked the mobile away, tugged on the cuff of his leather glove, and entered the first clinic on the corner of Harley Street and Wigmore Street to see what he could glean.

 

\-------

 

 **Wednesday, January 20th, 2010**

" _How's your blog going, John?"_

The mug of tea had gone cold. John sat at his desk. He pondered the question, moodily swiping his finger up and down the touch-pad . Another Wednesday. Another appointment with Ella Thompson.

He wasn't getting anywhere. Doctors make the worst patients, especially so in his case. It was almost laughable - him, getting counselling on trauma. Answering those transparent double-edged questions when he knew their purpose already - he's a _doctor,_ for god's sake, and a veteran. He _knows_ the expected answers.

He never gives anything away unless he wants to. Well, almost never.

He hardly needed someone to tell him he's messed up in the head. The bloody psychosomatic limp did that for him. But today had been _intolerable_. Going round and round with their verbal sparring: John stonewalling, Ella trying to be patient but clearly frustrated and allowing some impatience to show in her voice. It bordered on unprofessional, but they understood each other all too well.

John knew his mental state wouldn't improve unless he tried harder to open up, he _knew_ this. He just wasn't sure that it was going to be Ella that kept him from tipping over some edge. God, she tried - he had an extra appointment set for next Monday. But all it would accomplish was more verbal dancing around the point - he was broken, and it was going to take time. Time to mend. He had lots of time, these days.

Now, this blog she kept encouraging - he _almost_ could see the point. It was a more primitive version of what he'd been doing already at the phone sex line - reaching out across the wires to see if anyone would reach back to him. Friends who might look him up, acquaintances made - but through the medium of text on the screen instead of a live voice. Frankly, the phone sex had worked better for him. Except for that one time - _never mind._ He must get something down in the blog, or Ella would on his case. He just didn't trust putting down his thoughts and experiences in such a public forum, opening up like that. He... wasn't ready. Anyway, what would he write about? Nothing happened to him. Nothing happened to him. _Nothing ever happened to him._

He opened up the web browser, and looked at his blog entries for December.

 _December 14th._ **[Nothing.]** [Nothing.]

 _December 15th._ **[Pointless.]** [Nothing ever happens to me...]

 _Oh, but one thing had happened._ John's forefinger began to tremble, causing the cursor to jitter on-screen. One thing had happened, and thank god he had deliberately never written about it in his blog, because he didn't want to be reminded of his utter stupidity in getting sucked into Hugh's... damn it. Damn him! _How do I forget this? How do I delete him? How?_

In a fury he tapped out -  _January 20th, 2010_ : **[How?]** [ _How do I delete this?_ ]

He punched 'ENTER' savagely and got up, slinging on his jacket and picking up his walking stick. To hell with this. He knew what he needed. It wasn't these reflections on his faded life, the nightmares, the ache in his leg for a wound that _wasn't even there._ Time to explore south London a bit more, see the neighbourhood. He quite fancied a long walk in a green space. Burgess Park, perhaps. Skim some pebbles there. Remember an old comrade-in-arms. _Forget who had advised him to do this._

Afterwards, perhaps a curry in Peckham. Great ethnic food in Peckham, he's heard, and an edgy atmosphere he desperately needed. Enjoy a good ramble on some dangerous darkened streets - see if he cool this burning sensation he felt in his chest whenever he remembered Hugh. Look for a little excitement, and get a good night's sleep for once. Anticipation tightened across his shoulders, and he left, abandoning the cold mug of tea on the desk.

 

\-------

 

 **Thursday, January 21rst, 2010**

The afternoon sun through the opened curtains cast a glare on the monitor, and John angled the laptop to read better.

21st January. **[Happy now?]**  
[Look Ella. I'm writing my blog.]  
1 comment [Who's Ella? You got yourself a woman at last? What's she like? xxx Send a pic!] [Harry Watson 21 January 01:46]

He almost smiled. Harry. _That's it, keep your chin up._ Perhaps things would improve for her. The joke had been pathetic, but at least she was trying.

As for him? Well. His experiment in reaching out over the phone had failed. This blog thing was stupid, but he since he'd started his walking regimen, his mood was better than it had been for a month. He musingly rubbed the point of his shoulder over the bruise there. A souvenir of a little bump and shove with some drunk lad. The boy had been coming out of a pub last night and had thought it'd be a lark to knock the cripple down. It hadn't quite happened the boy had hoped, though. Courtesy of the heightened awareness trained in a war-zone, it had pathetically easy to see the idea cross through the boy's eyes.

It had been no challenge. The boy's intent had been easily telegraphed by his movements, and so when he'd strutted towards him, intending to knock into him, it'd been easy for John to pretend to look down at something on pavement as he walked, dropping his shoulder and twisting slightly. _Oh, is that a penny?_

When the boy had tensed up and leaned forward just before impact, John had straightened, thrusting his shoulder upwards into the boy's chest. The body blow had sent him flying back, staggering into the arms of his friends who had whooped with laughter. The lad had gaped, astonishment moving quickly to drunken anger.

"Wha' the fuck? Wha' the fuck d'ya think you're doing -?"

John had stood stock still, square, hands at his sides, walking stick resting against his leg. He only looked at the boy, head slightly tilted.

 _Yes?_ John's entire demeanour seemed to say politely. _Is there a problem?_

His eyes said, _I know what you were about. Don't try it on with me again._

Caution drowned in lager, the boy had reached inside his jacket, only to be caught by his friends.

"Shit, man, don't do it, you're out of it. What the fuck are you thinking? Let's go..."

They dragged him away, glancing back at John as they turned the corner.

"Fucking _hell._ You see his eyes?"

John had sighed - regret? Satisfaction? He turned and looked at the pub. Hm. Looked like an interesting place to have a drink. He went inside, and didn't notice that the walking stick swung idly at his side.

 _I should blog about this,_ thought John. And his face creased in a quick smile, his face and teeth flushed ruddy red by the sun streaming in, eyes gleaming. _Experiences from the front lines, urban style. Never mind. What would Ella think?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auth notes:
> 
> Before anyone wails that I am dragging it out needlessly, note the date stamping. Yes. It is almost time.
> 
> John is mostly over being sad now, and is well into the pissed off stage. Sherlock spins his wheels, unfortunately.
> 
> Usual disclaimers. Thanks to red_adam who kindly volunteered to Brit check, polly mal as idea sounding board, and a.t.s. on LJ for general plot checking.


	24. Confluens - Flowing Together

**10 am, Monday, January 25th, 2010**

 

Christ. John felt rough. He'd missed his extra appointment with Ella, and had just typed in his excuses to her on his blog, hand trembling slightly as he pecked at the keyboard.

What a night, though. Colourful. Good. He'd met up with some of the members of his old rugby club down at the pub, and it was as if the intervening years had never existed. Having a drink with the lads, laughing, poking fun at each other's thickening middles. Valiantly trying to pretend they were just as young, as up for it, as hard as they ever were. Many pints had been downed. Best of all, no one had mentioned his leg. There had been a woman, dark eyed and funny, that had flirted with him. Miracle of miracles, he'd flirted back, and would gladly have pursued it further except - well. Possible PTSD sexual dysfunction combined with alcohol... best not. The guys had ribbed him severely for letting her down.

It had been a lovely taste of normality.

Anyway. He'd forgotten his mobile in the pub, but luckily Gordon had just emailed him.

[I've got your mobile, you left without it. Bit distracted, mm? There's about ten messages on the phone, three were from some Ella bird? You old dog! That's the John Watson I remember. ] [Gordon from his iPhone]

[Thanks! Never mind about Ella. I'd like my mobile back please.] [JWatson]

[Do you want to meet up during my lunch break? Half past twelve. There's a café that does a decent sandwich and coffee not far from my offices.] [Gordon from his iPhone]

John scrubbed his hands over his face, and blew out a breath. Well. Why the hell not. He was supposed to have gone in to the City for his appointment anyway. He could walk off the hangover, maybe visit the Museum of London.

[Sure. Hope you are in just as much pain as I am right now. You bastard.] [JWatson]

A half smile curled up his mouth as he waited for the reply. Here it came. He checked the location of the café on Google maps to be sure, and logged out.

 

\-----

 

 **Noon, Monday, January 25th, 2010**

 

It's cold, the trail. Still nothing, _nothing!_ Sherlock could taste the bitter tang of futility, and it made his lean features even more than usually grim as he leaned over the cool body. He had thought he would have turned up some trace of John by now. Veteran's associations, clinics, blogs, interviews in pubs where ex-Army veterans gathered - nothing. He expelled a harsh breath through his teeth as he brushed a slightly shaky latex-gloved thumb over the dead man's eye, opening it. _Hell._

 _John._ Sherlock doesn't want to, but... he may have to de-prioritize the search - for a short time. Between a poor diet and the legwork, he's lost too much weight and is running himself ragged. Fine tremors racked his lean frame periodically. He'd taken to nicotine patches to help stimulate his system, but there were drawbacks. _Like crashing._

 _Enough._ He briefly considers this - has he done enough? No. Not yet. But for the time being - yes. Yet he would not give up the possibility of finding the man behind the voice. _John._ But in the meantime, there were still mysteries and murders to solve. John would have to be... a cold case. But only until Sherlock could regroup, and find a fresh lead.

Molly watched him examine the man's body in the morgue's drawer. "It's jaundice," she said in a bright voice. "You said wanted to see how the sclera colouration -"

"You can put it away now. Copper. Prolonged exposure. May I have the eyes afterwards?"

She blinked at him, and pushed the drawer closed. "I called you in for the eyes. Copper poisoning? Are you sure?"

God. Why were people so vacant? Was this not her _job?_ He pulled off the gloves with a snap and gathered up his coat. "Crescents at the top and bottom of the irises. As his hands clearly indicate that he didn't work in a manual labour job which necessitated the sharpening of non-sparking copper based tools, I'll be expecting a call from Lestrade sometime soon. I expect it was the curry that killed him. The eyes? Soon?"

He flashed her a brief smile. She melts. "All right, I'll keep them aside for you -"

"Wonderful. I'm going out. I need a coffee."

The door swung shut on her disappointed expression as he headed out.

 

\-----

 

The Criterion café was one of Sherlock's haunts when in central London - the French roast was particularly good here, and he had an understanding with the owner. He brushed past a large man who was just pushing in his seat at a table by the window _(recreational rugby player, chartered accountant, grasping at lost youth by the hair dye)_ and got in the queue, pulling off his gloves and loosening his coat and scarf as he did so.

"Well, must get back to the office. It was good to meet up again after all this time! Take care, John, and keep out of trouble, you hear?" said the man in a jovial tone, laughing at his own feeble wit.

Sherlock's shoulders tensed. Absurd, how overly sensitive he was becoming to that name - one of the most common on the planet! And yet he couldn't hear it without feeling a twinge.

The hiss of steam from the espresso machine drowned out whatever reply his companion smilingly made _(missed spot shaving, jacket wrinkled, bloodshot eyes - night out with the lads)_ , and Sherlock placed his order with a nod at the counter-girl.

Taking his cup from the barista, Sherlock pried off the plastic lid. _Put John aside for now, Sherlock. It will drive you mad otherwise, the not-knowing._ Two sugars, a dollops of milk, stir. _There's a potentially very interesting case coming your way, as soon as Scotland Yard realizes they are out of their depths - again._ He picked up the plastic lid, and struggled to put it back on - one side kept popping up. _Idiotic thing._

"Hello, Harry? It's John. Yeah, sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday. Yeah."

Coffee scalded Sherlock as his hand convulsed on the cup, distorting its shape. The lid leaped free and danced onto the floor, while Sherlock fumbled with a paper napkin to mop up. There was a strange ringing in his ears and his fingers didn't seem to be working correctly. His brain seemed to have got stuck on one track, repeating a phrase over and over.

 _it's him_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I finally hit the end of the prompt that was posted on LJ! Hurrah! It only took 30,000 words to get here!
> 
> Usual disclaimers - Moffat and Gatiss do not know what I do with their interpretations of Sherlock and John, and I thank the small gods for it every day I post.
> 
> Thanks to red_adam who kindly volunteered to Brit check, pollymal as idea sounding board, and a.t.s. on LJ for general plot checking. Wouldn't be half as good without you.


	25. Confluens - Part 2

_-it's him_

"Harry, I don't want to move in with you."

 _-It's HIM_

"No, no... Look, I'm not trying to be difficult.

Sherlock turns.

"I don't think it'll solve either of our problems..."

He _sees._

An average man with sandy hair in a black coat and jeans sitting at the table that the chartered accountant had just left. _John._

A woman tsk's in annoyance. John looked up _(he's looking at me!)_ , his glance sliding over Sherlock to the woman behind him. John lifted a shoulder and grimaced: an apology for using his phone in the cafe. His gazed returned to his coffee cup, which he idly turned as he spoke.

 _-He doesn't see me._

Sherlock opened his mouth to say... what?

 _-John. John, it's me, I want to explain, about -_

"No, I know I need to get a job."

 _\- what happened, I couldn't say it right, it got all twisted up and now now I can see you, you are -_

"Harry... _Harry."_

\- _right there, I won't get it wrong again, now I can see you, all the visual cues, I've been looking for you, I wanted -_

"For God's sake Harry, it's not like that! I just need a little time. I know -"

\- _to meet you, I've been looking for 33 days and 32 nights, and... I don't know what you are going to do, you sounded so angry and I have no idea, I... I -_

"- how hard it is... Can I get a word in edgewise, please?"

\- _I need more data._

Sherlock grabbed his cup and quickly moved to a table just past John's shoulder where he could observe him. His heart rate was increased, his fingers  tingling and not because of the coffee he splashed on them.

His eyes moved quickly and took note of everything, every detail.

He looks, looks and _looks._

"Look, I'm not in imminent danger of losing the flat. Okay. No, I do have some pride, I am not going to be -"

 _  
_

_**_/ tired / oddly expensive mobile / jeans and jumper for long wear and comfort / jacket a nod to fashion / aluminium walking stick / hidden between his leg and the wall / well-used brown leather shoes / right shoe freshly scuffed / walks a lot despite leg problem / left handed / in his late thirties / roughened skin from exposure /_ ** _

**_  
_ **

"- a layabout relation, sponging off you, thanks. Just leave it, can't you? Please."

He sees: A man, annoyed with Harry. A man without gainful employment. A man who has a flat in London. A man with nothing but time.

"No... no, I'm in the City. Had to pick up my phone. Forgot it in the pub last night."

He sees: A face creased more from smiles than the little frown that is being smoothed away, rubbing a hand over his brow as he speaks to Harry.

"Yep. Gordon and Murray and some of the lads. Was pretty good."

He sees a man, face in profile limned in brilliance from the sunlight through the window. Ordinary. _Amazing._

"No, I didn't get off with anyone - Christ, since when is your business what your brother gets up to...?"

Sherlock's eyes closed, and he let the voice wash over him. _John. Just... keep talking. I need to think, it's quieter when you talk, how do you do that?_

 _-How?_

 _  
_

_**/ Do not approach /** Observe / **I've found him!** / best approach / found **john!** / employ caution / Caution / advances will be **unwelcome** now / just listen to him / **do not risk rejection again / need more data**_

 _**  
** _

John chuckled, and the sound curled through Sherlock, parting his lips. He shifted in his seat. _Yes. Just like that. Don't stop, not yet._

"Never mind, don't tell me. Listen, I think I'd better let you go. There are people glaring at me, someone wants my table, and anyway, isn't your lunch break almost over?"

Sherlock opened his eyes once more. He focused, blinked once. _There. Saved. I won't forget._

"Right. Listen, we'll get together soon, yeah? If I don't pick up, it's either because the battery died or because -"

Sherlock sees. He sees _John._

"- I couldn't figure it out, I mean come on. Could you have given me a more complicated mobile, Harry? Yeah. Ha! You too, then."

John closed the mobile, slipping it into a coat pocket and rising from his seat, fumbling for his walking stick. Sherlock ducked his head, taking a sip of his coffee, but watched from under the fringe of his lashes. John picked up his cup and his companion's in his left hand, disposed of them ( _responsible man, John!)_ and left, stick tapping the ground in rhythm with his steps.

Quickly Sherlock jumped to his feet, watching through the window to see the direction John turned. He tore off his coat, and tugged his scarf free. Shirt collar up, and folded back on top of the jacket lapels. Scarf wound once around the neck: so. Fling the ends over his shoulders.

His mobile vibrated - a text. Irritated, Sherlock looked at the sender. Lestrade. _No time._ The mobile goes into his jacket pocket. Sherlock thrust his fingers through his hair, dragging and fluffing his hair into a mad froth, tugging it forward. He rolled his coat into a bundle quickly, tucked it under his arm and stalked out, shoulders curved inwards and back bowed, just another bohemian-type too stylish to wear suitable clothing for the cold January weather.

John walked up High Holborn with a steady gait, leaning on his walking stick. _Right leg. No visible disability, just that limp. Hm._ Sherlock kept back, watching the upright figure. John looked neither left nor right.

Sherlock' mobile vibrated again, annoyingly. Lestrade calling. He ignored the buzzing, eyes fixed on John's back. Another text came through.

[Answer me, Sherlock. What did you mean about curry? G.L.]

[Take my call, or I'll have you up on charges. G.L.]

Sherlock's lips drew back, and he tapped out a reply, eyes flicking between the small screen and John.

[Busy. SH]

[Hate to bring it up but you owe me. Card. Phone sex. Need I go on? G.L.]

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He quickened his pace, watching John push his way through the people waiting for the signal to cross the street at Kingsway. Three paces behind, Sherlock paused. He quickly tapped a reply.

[Five minutes. SH ]

He jerked his head up at the blare of a car horn, and an angry shout. _What the hell-?_ His muscles bunched, but he stilled his impulse to leap forward and... do what? Grab John's arm? It was too late. John has walked against the light directly in front of a mini-cab, dodging its fender in a strangely agile way for a man with a disability.

"Sorry!" he called back to the disgruntled driver.

Sherlock watched, lips parted, heart pounding, as John crossed the other side and turned towards Holborn Underground entrance. _He couldn't have... is he?_ John is _smiling_ to himself. Sherlock's phone vibrates. Damn it, not _now!_

[Thank you. G.L.]

The light changed, and Sherlock surged forward. _Quickly, before he manages to go through the ticket gates...!_ He twisted and squeezed through the pedestrians.

John was now completely out of earshot and going down the steps, his walking stick swinging idly. Sherlock trailed him, eyes fixed on the line of John's shoulders under his jacket. _Why would he do that, step out into traffic that way? Why that smile - for pity's sake, he'd nearly been knocked down - oh. Oh._ Understanding began to dawn. John headed for the touch-through ticket gates, pulling his Oyster card from his wallet. Sherlock took the steps two at a time and looked about quickly. _Her._

A young woman with blonde hair straggling from under a woollen hat was leaning against the wall, asking for change. He quickly moved to her side, his head slightly turned to watch John, who progress had been impeded by the ticket gates closing. A red light flashed. Oyster card error. Sherlock breathed in silent thanks as John backed out of the gate, apologizing to the commuter behind him, and made his way to the ticketing machine.

Sherlock loomed over the girl, planting an arm against the wall as if he were having intimate conversation with her, hiding most of his face. He turned his head, keeping John in the corner of his peripheral vision. The girl nodded at him and smiled, hand up.

"Spare some change?"

"For a someone who knows the trenches? Of course. Like that ex-soldier there." He cocked his head towards John, who seemed to be struggling with the ticket machine. Note after note kept being rejected, sliding out of the slot almost immediately after John had fed it in. His neck muscles looked stiff. Sherlock imagined his expression, the lips pressed together in irritation. Was John muttering some imprecation? _Hmm._ Focus.

Sherlock leaned in. "Get me a name, last name. Anything that might be of interest. Spread the word."

She waggled her fingers. He dug for some notes and folded them into her cold fingers. "You have a card?"

She smirked. "Student pass, of course." He snorted.

"Go back to uni. Finish that social science degree, Amy. This lifestyle doesn't suit you."

She lifted a shoulder negligently. "What's this, but research in the trenches? Surely you would approve." Looking past his shoulder, her eyes narrowed. "He's moving."

"You know where to find me? Good. Don't fail me."

She straightened up. "A pleasure serving my country, Mr. Holmes." Quickly she slapped her card on the reader and darted through the gates after John.

Sherlock straightened, watching John, memorizing him, until he was swallowed up by a group of people moving between them. He was disappointed he couldn't keep tabs on John personally, but the street people were less conspicuous. Sherlock unrolled his long coat, and put it on with sure movements. In the meantime, there was Lestrade, and the suddenly boring case of the copper-poisoned curry. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned back to the escalators. Still. In spite of the random element of chance, he'd found John.

 

His lips turned up. _He could hardly wait for the report._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you may be inclined to scream at this update - "He didn't talk to John!" But think about that logically. We like Sherlock, for all his faults. Do we really want to have him confront John here and now and then John punches the detective half to death in the Criterion? I mean, even if Sherlock didn't mind, and John got off the charges...
> 
> Besides, canonically speaking, the meeting will not come for a few days. This day, where Sherlock FINDS John, is the 24th of January. The Bart's meeting is the 29th.
> 
> Apologies to those who are also following along on LiveJournal - I have been... well not stuck, but more like actively terrified to write the next fill because I'm hitting one of the most important points of the story and really, REALLY needed to be clear on things before I wrote. I did it though, and it's up. Took forever.


	26. In Somnio - In Dreams Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is pleased with himself - he's found John and decided on a course of action.

 

Sherlock arched his back, stretching with a groan of relief. His flat in Holloway was littered with boxes awaiting the removers at the end of the month. He'd quite miss it - a little bit down at heel, with an edge that offended Mycroft. Sherlock had got the skull print from a nearby street artist for whom he'd done a small favour.

One its best points of the area was that he could receive dubious visitors of all descriptions without anyone taking note - like Amy, who'd come by early this morning. The news she'd brought had been interesting. Disturbing. Since she'd left, he'd been on the sofa with his laptop precariously balanced on a stack of boxes, combing the Internet for information about John.

 _John Watson._

Amy had sat in a chair she'd dragged in from his destroyed kitchen _('Someone get tetchy with you, Mr. Holmes?')_ with a mug of coffee. Basic pleasantries completed, he'd impatiently glowered at her. She'd grinned at his expression, and started her report. Sherlock sat on the sofa, elbows resting on knees, leaning forward. _At last_.

"First off, your man is half a lunatic. Didn't figure him for it at first. Okay. First he goes to St. Paul's, spends about two hours there. He comes out, and walks around some more. Goes past Bart's, then visits the Museum of London. That took another two hours. I thought you said he was an ex-soldier - I mean, what's the walking stick for? He limps a little, but he just keeps going."

Sherlock pondered this, hands folded under his chin. The limp and walking stick were symptomatic then, but not of an injury. Something deeper, most likely psychosomatic. He said nothing, so she continued.

"And he never looks where he walks, does he? Started crossing roads just before the lights changed - twice! Never turns his head to the side. So, he's wandering, playing tourist. Killing time, looked like to me. He has dinner at a curry place, then gets a bus towards Somerset House, and then down to Brixton. Brixton! Jonesy did the tailing there. Your man John starts walking, it's like he's on a bloody holiday looking for the worst places, the darkest spots, his coat open, wallet in his back pocket. I mean - Somerleyton Estate? Gang territory? Does he have a death wish?"

"Killing time, indeed, " murmured Sherlock. There was a twisting feeling inside his chest. He wasn't sure whether it was from his atrophied conscience or from excitement. _John - is... indescribable._

"Oh, and by the way, next time you want us to follow someone, let us know he's possible a violent nutter, won't you? He scared the piss out of Jonesy by turning round on him. Jonesy thought he was going to be clubbed down. Your man seemed to think he was after his wallet and phone, and didn't look much troubled at the idea. Jonesy backed off, fast. Scared him." Amy looks aggrieved.  
Sherlock got up and began pacing. "Jonesy got too close. Idiot. Do you have anything concrete for me?"

Amy reached into her padded jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Name and address. Everton got this to me this morning. He lives in Streatham Hill. John Watson."

Sherlock took the paper. _Are his fingers trembling slightly? Ridiculous._ Amy stood, and he walked her to the door, seeing her off with another monetary reward and instructions to continue the surveillance. He wanted all of John's habits, his patterns - Sherlock needs information to sift and parse and _know._ He closed the door, rested his forehead and palms against it for a moment, then pushed off wildly, spinning around, grinning.

Yes. _Yes._ John Watson!

He clapped his hands together and tapped them against his lips, pacing back and forth. This was _wonderful_ information, just what he needed.

 _/ superfluous cane / intermittent limp / ex-soldier / needs excitement / to forget? / feel alive? / unafraid of dangerous situations / Oh John / You must be so BORED / You are perfect_

Sherlock twisted round, eyes darting over the packing boxes. He delved into a box labelled 'medication', pulled out his box of nicotine patches and pushed up his sleeve. There. Pleased expression still lingering on his face, he began to pace through the stacked boxes, meditating.

He'd been right - as an assistant, John would be perfect. Oh, how Sherlock wants to -!

John had mentioned the gap left in his life when he'd come home, the lack of... what had he said? Colour. Sherlock could help - he was going to save John Watson from ennui. _How alike we are._ Of course, there was the disturbing trend of John's patterns of self-destructive behaviour. Visiting the worst council estates in London, picking fights and jumping into traffic...

 _God, look at the insane fearlessness of the man. What a waste!_

If that wasn't John's way of writing an open letter to the world, saying, "Just take your best shot, finish me if you can," then Sherlock was no student of behaviour. These suicidal tendencies had to stop, and what better way, what safer way to lessen them yet still fulfil John's need for excitement than by joining Sherlock...

 _He won't. He's not going to want to meet you. He wants to forget you._

Sherlock abruptly halted, chest tight. John... John. Well. Things were just about as bad as they could be, between John and himself. Between 'Hardwin and Hugh'. Swearing under his breath, Sherlock walked faster, as if to outpace his stupidity, brushing against stacks of boxes and causing them to sway with the turbulence of his passage. _You have no idea what John will do if you suddenly show up. No - wrong. You do know. Amy told you what happened with Jonesy._

Chance of potential violence perpetrated upon one Sherlock Holmes by one John Watson? High. John looked quite fit, for a 'medical discharge.' It was going to hurt, when they met. Sherlock bit his lip thoughtfully, picturing that compact figure coiling up for the blow. Yes, well. He'd admit it - he deserved to be knocked down. If it relieved John's feelings, he would endure it. He would do much to re-connect with John. But any overt attempts to contact John would likely be completely rebuffed. John would never stay with him. How - ?

 _Data._ He toed several boxes towards the sofa and placed his laptop on top. First search string. Sherlock muttered the words aloud. It felt natural - speaking to John. "John Watson. Army. Let's see you, John."

 _Simplicity._ Worlds could be moved, with the application of the correct data and a consulting detective at one end. One of the top results had been the blog of one John Watson. His eyes hungrily skimmed, finger scrolling and tapping through comments and entries. Very few, as it turned out.

" _Doctor Watson._ God, John! Why couldn't you have just said -? I know. Boundaries." He read on. Recently returned from Afghanistan. _Afghanistan!_ Sherlock groaned, and tapped his forehead with one fist. "Of course. There's always something - stupid to have assumed Iraq. Idiot!"

He took note of names - Harry Watson _(Is that your brother? Harry gave you an overly complicated mobile - technophiles tend to be male. And there's this innuendo about Ella. High probability of male sibling, then)._ Bill Murray _(He told you about Lizzy. He was trying to contact you several days before.)_ Ella Thompson _(Aha! Your doctor - you missed your appointment. She recommended this blog? Ridiculous notion)._

But of John? Nothing, barring a description of his night out with the rugby lads. Empty.

"John, where are you? This - _this_ isn't you."

 _/John you are full of words / I've heard your eloquence / but there are none here / this void isn't you / you are so much more / I would like to show you / I can fill in the blanks /_

Sherlock rubbed a thumb over the user picture of John. It did not sum up the man at all - the unexpectedness, the complexities of him. And yet - how to meet him? Sherlock did not wish to be rejected again. His thumb twitched, and John's face was momentarily obscured by distortion, the serious face twisting.

No, that would be... bad. How - ?

The cryptic advice Mycroft had given intruded. _'Take a new approach. It will show you how to correct the original problem.'_ Sherlock considered. A new approach to the original problem. The problem was that he had got John involved with his experi - with _himself_ under false pretences. And yet... how to meet John without the past getting in the way? How to show John what he, Sherlock, was really like?

What was it John had flung at him at the end of their call? _'What do I really know about you? Nothing. Who are you? What's your name? Where do you live? What are your habits? What do you do?'_

"John, when we meet, I promise you will have your answers," Sherlock told the user pic. "Still - I need a method of meeting you that will allow you to feel in control. Not as though I had - "

He grimaced. Tracked you down? Stalked you? Dug up all the history I could on you? That was not likely to make John feel comfortable. No... what he needed was a neutral setting. Sherlock could not approach directly. So - a third party introduction. From someone John knew? An 'accidental' meeting, to allay John's suspicion.

He needed to arrange... _serendipity._

Sherlock's fingers flew again - search string: John Watson. Doctor. Hospital. Training school. Result: St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Smithfield. A browse through some networking and classmate-finding sites and he had the best possible connection that would lead him to John - Mike Stamford. Mike and John had finished the same year. Best of all, Mike was teaching three days a week at Bart's, and Sherlock knew him personally. He went back to John's blog, and touched the picture again lightly with a forefinger, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. Risky, Very, very risky.

A small voice at the back of his mind warned him that this wasn't good, that this arrangement smacked of the same subterfuge that had poisoned his relationship with John in the first place. _It's your nature, isn't it, Sherlock? You hide yourself so well, you may as well be constructed of lies. Let's not kid ourselves - you are still not being honest. You want to protect yourself._ But Sherlock shoved the thought away. With such a high risk factor, he wanted to load the dice in his favour as much as possible, while still leaving John free will. If he failed, his options would narrow considerably.

"I will do my best to intrigue you, John," murmured Sherlock. "It's what you want, isn't it? The prospect of danger and excitement. To help you live completely in the world, instead of being detached. It's chancy. I hate that. But... the alternatives are less attractive. Or have lower odds. So." His brain began constructing lists, probabilities, pros and cons, scenarios, back-ups.

Within a few days, with the help of his network he would know best how to make sure that the paths of Mike Stamford and Dr. John Watson converged. Doctor. Ex-soldier. Phone sex operator. His enigma. Decision made, Sherlock stretched again, some of the pent-up tension leaving his body. He peeled the spent patch from his forearm, folded it several times and flicked it towards an open packing box.

So close, so close. He could almost hear John's voice, the low amused chuckle he made. To have the intimacy of shared thoughts again... He could scarcely wait.

"John," he said to the small face on the laptop. "Can you comprehend what I am doing for you? This may be one of the most difficult things I have ever done." Sherlock's thin face was serious but calm.

The silence in the flat was smothering. "I only hope... Well. I will show you what I am like, why I am alone. You may not like it. But I want to give you answers, give you what you need. I want to be as fascinating to you as you are to me. This will work - you and I. You'll see. _I can't wait."_ His eyes closed, and he finally smiled, allowing himself at last to feel the anticipation. His muscles relaxed and his head fell back against the sofa.

 _That's... um. Lovely, Hugh._

"Not Hugh. Not for much longer, John. Please. Call me Sherlock. I am... looking forward our meeting. So much."

 _Well. That's good. I'd hate to see what state you would work yourself into, otherwise. Don't you ever eat?_

Sherlock smiled, eyes still closed. "I've been strangely busy. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you."

 _Don't think I would. What have you been doing?_

"Looking. Waiting. To see you."

 _I see you now. Listen, just so we're clear here - this is a fantasy, right?_

"Of course it is, don't be ridiculous. I want to hear your voice. I'm using my memory of your speech patterns, intonation and timbre to construct a scenario whereby I can listen to you speak."

 _Okay. Um. Why?_

"For the purpose of masturbation, John. As regards to meeting you in person, I finally have a course of action to pursue. It's been stressful, this past month. I want to relieve some tension. Ergo... "

 _Oh. Well. As long as you are pursuing a higher purpose then. What a mind - like a finely tuned engine._

"You're smiling. I can hear it in your voice."

 _I am. Open your eyes. Look at me, Sherlock. Let's begin._

Sherlock bends his intellect to the task, and in his mind's eye, he opens his eyes and lifts his head slowly. The fantasy begins.


	27. In Somnio - In Dreams Part 2

John is sitting in the kitchen chair facing the sofa. Sherlock mentally reconstructs John much as he had seen him at the café - jeans, buttoned shirt, black coat, cropped dark blond hair. He is idly playing with the walking stick, rolling it between his hands as he leans forward, elbows on legs. His smile plays across his lips, and he is looking at Sherlock with his direct blue gaze.

'Hello. How do I look?'

'Almost perfect. You know you don't really need that,' Sherlock points out.

'All right.' John puts the stick on the floor. 'Other than that?'  
'It never mattered to me how you looked, John. It's not why I want to meet you. But... I do appreciate your outer shell. If that matters.'

'It can help. Science of attraction, remember. Thank you - for both compliments, Sherlock.'

'If the truth can be presented as a compliment, then you are welcome, John.'

'Also - don't you have any social platitudes to woo me with? Perhaps ask how I've been doing?'

' _John._ Why are you so contrary, even in my fantasy?'  
'You know why.'

'Because I like challenges. I like the unexpected. You stand up to me.'

'Right. You need that.'

'But I know how you've been doing. I saw you yesterday. That is why I can picture you now. Before, you were only a voice in the dark.'

'True. And here I am. My voice, my image. Watching.'

'Yes.'

'Hmm. Well. I don't mind that. Sitting here and looking at you is no hardship. I quite like the way you stroke your throat that way. Imagining my hand there, are you?'

' _Yes._ That was ...good. What you did, before.'

'But I'm over here. Looking.'

'John, for god's sake -!'

'Contrary. Unpredictable. And I am just what you need, Sherlock. You never knew, did you?'

'No.'

'Me, watching you touch yourself. My eyes roaming over you - Christ, you're a tall one, aren't you?'

'Doesn't matter about appearances, John. You said so yourself, once. Would you like me to take off my jacket?'

'Make yourself comfortable. You have entirely too many clothes on for this situation. I'd hate to have to wait too long before I can see your body. I want to watch you working yourself up, seeing your hand moving on your cock. Long, slow strokes all the while I talk to you, my voice describing everything. My tongue tracing a wet line down it, my mouth enclosing the tip with hot, wet warmth. All the filthy things I would like to do, I'll tell you. And I'll watch your hand speed up, rough and fast, your face flushing -'

'Ungh. My jacket's off. You really do have a way with descriptions, don't you, John?'

'You seem to think so. This is all in your head, after all. It really is self-service here, Sherlock.' John's smile is slightly self-mocking but he leans forward, eyes intent. 'Now. Pull out that shirt from your trousers. Unbutton it, all the way down the front... Good. I like the way it frames your body like that, the white against your pale skin. God, I would love to smooth my palms down that skin. You'll have to do it, though. Show me what you'd like me to do.'

'Fingertips dragging over that warm skin, and stopping just at the top of your trousers. And then I would run my hands back up, one going to the back of your head, the other resting on your waist. I would love to kiss you hard, tangling my hand in your hair to tilt your head back. I would like to kneel over you, my thighs straddling you and my arse resting right on those tight trousers of yours, rocking back and forth on your trapped erection. _But I can't._ I am watching you, just watching.'

'John. I want you to watch me. I want you to see me. I want to feel your mouth on my chest, your tongue moving in lazy circles around my nipples, but - _I can't._ You'll have to watch me lick my fingers, and slowly circle and pinch them myself. Watch while I drop my hands to the tops of my thighs and rub, my thumbs pressing into my erection... yes. Yes. _Yes.'_

'God, you gorgeous man. I'm watching. Go on then. Pop that button open. Unzip. Time to lose the trousers and underwear - yes. Just kick them off with the socks. Lean back, arms along the top of the sofa. That's good. Spread your legs more. _Christ,_ you look good - you look utterly wanton sitting there on that leather sofa with just an open shirt and your head back. Do you have any idea how fuckable you look?'

Sherlock can imagine. In his mind, John's face is slightly flushed, his eyes moving from Sherlock's parted lips, to the erection straining against his stomach. John's hands are rubbing the coarse denim of his jeans, not quite touching the erection strained against thick fabric. _John looks._ He watches Sherlock, and Sherlock wants that _so much._ He groans aloud, his eyes squeezed shut, the sound loud in his empty flat.

" _John. John..."_

'I know. Time you did something about with that gorgeous cock, isn't it? I want to see those long fingers - Oh. Wait a moment.'

"...What?"

'My mobile's on vibrate.' John pulls out the absurd mobile from his coat pocket, and looks at the display. He frowns slightly, then smiles apologetically at Sherlock. 'It's work. I have to take it. Excuse me.' He stands up and moves into the kitchen.

-

 _What -?_

Sherlock's eyes flew open, staring at the cracked paint of his ceiling. Fuck -! Obviously his mind was not as finely-tuned as he'd previously believed. He'd no idea that fantasies could be so wayward. A throaty chuckle escaped him, and he closed his eyes again. Amazing. _But let's see what we can do about this._

 _Back to the fantasy._

-

He pictures his lanky image on the sofa getting up petulantly and snatching up a bottle of lube from the packing box labelled 'medical'. Wearing nothing but his open shirt and a scowl, Sherlock stalks into the kitchen. There he sees John, standing on the far side of the table, back to him. He's got the mobile to his ear, and is speaking to someone. Sherlock pauses, taken aback. _Unbelievable._

'Good... that's what I like. I love it when someone takes the initiative for once. There are times when you just have to do it, take that risk.' John is speaking, his voice intimate. 'You know what I want - your hands on me. To feel your hand slide down the front of my trousers and squeeze my cock. I want your lips on my skin, your tongue - I'm just waiting for it.'

Sherlock circles the table to face John. John doesn't look at him, focused on the mobile. 'Do you know how much I want you?' he says into the phone. Sherlock listens closely, but he can hear no reply on the other end to John's question.

'Oh, you are fucking killing me,' John says, voice low. He begins rubbing the heel of his left hand over the bulge in his jeans. His eyelids flutter closed, then open again. Sherlock is still annoyed, but there is a growing fascination, watching John stroke his cock through the heavy denim.

'Who are you talking to?' he asks, but John continues his one-sided conversation.

'You - ! _Why_ won't you do it? Just fucking grab me, I can't _wait._ ' John's fingers curve and press, moving harder against his erection. He's breathing more quickly.

Sherlock tightens his lips. _Enough._ He is going to distract John - he _deserves_ John's focus, this is _his_ fantasy. He doesn't care why his mind has created a mysterious caller to draw John away. He just wants all John's attention to himself, and this is _his_ fantasy, under his control.

He moves to stand behind John, who immediately leans his head back on Sherlock's left shoulder, blond hair tickling. His left hand moves to Sherlock's thigh. 'Can you feel my hand, how I'm gripping you, leaving dents in the flesh? Please. It's what I _need._ Won't you just do it? _God!'_ he says into the mobile to his caller.

In spite of himself, Sherlock's hands move to John's hips and pulled him in tighter. John gasps. _'Finally._ What were you waiting for? Mm. I'm moving against you, I can feel your cock just at the top of my arse, I'm shifting to rub against it. God, it feels good. Do you like how rough my jeans feel against it?' John's body grinds gently against Sherlock's erection, and Sherlock groans involuntarily.

'John. _John._ You feel marvelous.'

'Don't _stop._ I want your lips against my neck.' John tilts his head to the left, exposing strong muscles and tanned skin. The mobile is still pressed against his right ear, and Sherlock bends and licks the back of his hand, nipping at a knuckle. He rubs a cheek against John's hand, before he turns and presses his lips behind John's ear, deep voice rumbling with menace.

'John. Fair warning. Disconnect the call. Pay attention to _me._ Or I will do whatever it takes to get your undivided attention. Whatever is described in your sex call - it _will_ happen. I will do it to you in literal fact.'

John chuckles, the sound vibrating against Sherlock's bare chest. 'Well, of course you will. I'm talking to you, aren't I?'

'Is that so?' Sherlock growls, and from the mobile he can hear the echo of his words, [-'Is that so?'-]

Ah. _Interesting._

-

In the living room, Sherlock's lips stretched into a smile of satisfaction. _Yes._ His dream-self will have two voices. Ego and id. _Fascinating._ His fingers curled around his half- softened penis, and began to move slowly.

-

'I thought you heard me. Didn't I say I was waiting for you to touch me?' John enquires in an innocent tone.

'You little _cock-tease._ You took a call in the middle of my fantasy. A _phone-sex call.'_

'Unpredictable. Did you forget? And we agreed I was uncommon. Just like you, Sherlock. You _do_ have quite an imagination, don't you?'

'Flattery will get you nowhere, John,' Sherlock says sternly. His voice on the mobile echoes, [-'Nowhere _at all._ You infuriating man.'-]

John laughs, full and bright, shoulders shaking. 'How disappointing. And here I've been, begging for you to touch me. This is a phone-sex call. It's with you.' He tilts his head, rolling it on Sherlock's shoulder to catch his gaze. His eyes are full of mischief. 'So. Aren't you going to oblige?'

'Don't be ridiculous, of course I will _oblige_ you. And incidentally - indulge myself. Completely.' Sherlock holds the bottle of lube in front of John's face, then reaches behind and places it on the table. ' _Fully._ Do you understand me, John Watson?'

The blue eyes scan Sherlock's face, widening. Whatever expression he reads on Sherlock's face causes the mirth to fall away, replaced a considering look. His eyes narrow slightly, and the decision passes through them. John swallows, throat muscles working. 'Yes. All right.' And with that, his eyes close, body pliant. Waiting. _Beautiful._

Sherlock drops his hand back to John's hip, holding him still while he moves his hips in small circles, pressing his erection against John's back.

'Lift your head, John.' The order is twinned, one coming from his lips, the other emerging from the mobile's ear speaker. John obeys, and Sherlock guides him to his right shoulder, his hand under John's jaw. He tilts John's head, fingers gentle against the rough chin, and begins to kiss his way down John's neck, lips moving, tongue pressing wetly.

'John. Can you hear me? Ah, the taste of your skin.' He nips, tasting the sweet-salt taste between his teeth. John's breath catches. [-'John, I want you. God, that neck.'-] Sherlock buries his face, breathes against the column of John's throat, blowing against the damp spots of saliva.

John shivers against him, goosebumps rising. 'I hear you. And god, I feel you. Don't stop. I want your hands - I want them on me. I want you those long fingers on my cock, _now._ '

'My hands, then. Sliding around to the front of your body, my fingers playing with the waistband of your jeans, pulling your shirt free and rubbing the skin just above, my fingers dipping down the front just a little.' As Sherlock describes, his actions follow words.

John listens to the voice on the mobile. His eyes are closed, his head is pressed back. Sherlock is seducing him with soft words from two sides. John is trapped, caught between transmitted voice and rumbling vocal cords, warm lips brushing his left ear, cool modern technology pressing on the right.

' _Sherlock.'_

[-'Do you know what I think, John?'-] the deep voice murmurs into both ears. 'I think you are wearing entirely too much clothing for this fantasy.'

John makes a soft noise as Sherlock draws away and continues talking. His deep voice is husky, the mobile at John's ear echoing, describing the process of the unclothing, the touching. The black coat is pulled away and tossed into the corner. Shirt buttons are flicked open, long pale fingers exploring the gaps before drawing the cotton down and off. Fingers move down John's right arm, tracing spirals down the bicep, the soft inner skin of the forearm. A hand curls around John's lax wrist and lifts the hand holding the mobile back to John's ear.

'Listen. I'm pulling you back against me - ah, there. The weight of you, leaning a bit back against my bare chest - god, you're warm, John. Keep your eyes closed, just like that.' Sherlock's fingers splay out, drawing John back against his body, exploring the ribs and musculature, and then move upward. [-'I didn't forget that last time. Your nipples are sensitive for a man. The sounds you made, John, when I described what I would do to them... they were the most arousing things I'd heard in years. Decades. A lifetime.'-]

Deft fingers slide across the soft ivory of John's chest, tracing the areolae, rubbing the nipples.

'Mmn!'

[-'Don't hold back, John, I love those noises,'-] the dark voice on the mobile says. Sherlock whispers against John's skin, 'Let me hear them, John, all the gasps and groans. Or you do you need more incentive?'

Sherlock's hands drop down and pop the fastening open on John's jeans. He grasps each side and pulls hard, spreading the zip. His fingers delve into the opening, cupping John's straining erection behind the cotton of his underwear, squeezing lightly and rubbing. John's body arches, a broken gasp escaping.

'Yes. Sherlock, oh god.'

Sherlock kisses the skin behind his ear, speaking low. "That's it, John, just like that.' [-'Just like that, that's the noise I need, don't hide it, let me have your pleasure.'-]

John reaches up, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tugging his face down to his neck again. 'Come on, then. Give it to me.'

-

On the sofa, Sherlock groans. His left hand creeps up to his mouth, index finger pressing to his lips, rubbing back and forth. His right hand moves a little faster, and his hips rock slightly against the leather.

 _John._

-


	28. In Somnio - In Dreams Part 3

'John,' groans Sherlock. He shoves the jeans and underwear down over John's hips and takes hold of John's cock. He begins to stroke it, fingers wrapped around the warm silkiness of the skin, feeling the blood-hot firmness beneath. He listens greedily to the noises coming from John's throat. [-'Yes, more.'-]

His left arm wraps around John's chest, pressing him against Sherlock's body. His left hand toys with John's right nipple, pinching and rolling it between thumb and forefinger. John cries out hoarsely. His right arm holding the mobile is shaking, fingers clenched and knuckles white.

'That's it, John, give me _more._ '

Sherlock bends his head, pressing his lips to John's left shoulder, then sucking hard. John's fingers clench painfully in his hair. Sherlock's hips are rhythmically grinding against John's arse, rubbing his erection against smooth skin and the slickness of pre-ejaculate. 'The way you sound, John.' His long body is curved around John's shorter one, surrounding him. [-'I've got to have you.'-]

'Oh god, god, god... '

Sherlock kisses John's rough jaw, feels the shape of it, traces it with the edge of his teeth. 'I want to bend you over that table there.' His hand moves faster on John's cock. [-'Is that what you would like, John? Tell me that's what you would like.'-]

John's voice is shaky, "Oh, Christ. Yes. Let me put down the phone. Fuck, _yes,_ Sherlock. Oh! Slow down, _slow down!'_

'You can't stop using the mobile. You are the one who wanted phone sex.' Sherlock tugs on John's earlobe with his teeth.

John's laugh is a little frantic. " _Fuck._ No, you chose this fantasy. Oh Jesus. Oh!' His eyes are scrunched tightly closed, and the expression on his face reminds Sherlock of paintings of the rapture of mystics.

[-'Beautiful, you looks so perfect like this, John.'-] He swallows thickly. 'Put it on speaker phone then. Here.' Sherlock plucks the phone from John's trembling fingers, clicks the speaker button and puts it on the table. The sound of Sherlock's voice sounds from the little speaker. [-'There. Perfect. Now I can talk without even using my mouth.'-]

John's eyes pop open. 'What do you mean -?' Before he can finish the sentence, Sherlock spins him around by his hips and swoops in to claims his mouth.

[-'John. _John._ -]

John wraps an arm behind Sherlock's shoulder and uses his other hand to pull the taller man even closer, groaning. Sherlock is open-mouthed, devouring, and John is matching his ferocity. His tongue traces Sherlock's bottom lip and Sherlock's slides against it, tasting.

[-'I could spend months memorizing the textures of you, John. Your skin. Your hair. Everything. Years. Decades.-]

John kisses his way from the corner of Sherlock's mouth to his jaw. Sherlock hisses a breath, and tilts his head back invitingly.  
[-'Do it, let me feel your teeth, mark me, _harder._ '-]

Sherlock's fingers tighten on John's hips as John does as requested, first using his teeth to gently bite the juncture of neck and shoulder, and then sucking hard and fast to bring up a bright contusion. John smiles against his skin, and lifts a hand against Sherlock's face, turning his head back so their mouths met again, more languorously, feeding on each other. His fingertips brush against Sherlock's cheekbone gently. Sherlock releases his tight grip on John's hips and lifts a hand to the back of John's head, burying his fingers in the short strands.

[-'Perfect. You are perfect. The things I want to do to you.'-]

'Do them, then,' John says against Sherlock mouth. Sherlock's lips curve into a smile.

[-'But you are entirely too clothed for this fantasy, John.'-]

John pulls back and looks at him, smiling and frowning together. 'Fine. Help me get these trousers and shoes off, and you lose the shirt. Better yet, just vanish them away. You idiot.'

Sherlock's answering smile is wide and bright. He chuckles silently, and draws off his shirt, leaning against the table. [-'Apparently with some things I require some verisimilitude.-]

John huffs a laugh, and toes off his shoes, dragging the remainder of his clothing off without further ado and kicking it aside.

[-'Get over here, John.-] Sherlock catches his wrist and tugs. John comes eagerly, smiling, stepping between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's fingers cup John's head and angle his face up for a kiss, groaning. John closes the distance between their bodies, urgently pressing and begins to roll his hips against Sherlock's, their erections brushing and rubbing against each other.

[-' _More_ , oh god. John...!'-]

John responds to the exclamation of pleasure by sliding his left hand between their bodies, firmly grasping their shafts together. Sherlock's breath catches at the sensation, and when John's hand begins to move, using his thumb to swipe over the glans to collect the slickness there, Sherlock's fingers tighten in John's hair even more. He can't help the involuntary movement his hips make into John's hand, growling, and he forces John's mouth open even more, kissing him deeply, tongue exploring silken heat within.

[-'Fuck, yes. _Yes._ John.'-]

His hands drop to John's arse, fingers digging in, relaxing, squeezing. John makes a half-choked noise and thrusts against him three times in quick succession. 'Nng!. Sherlock, _go on_. I want to feel you.'

Quickly Sherlock fumbles with the bottle of lube, smoothing the liquid over his fingers. Reaching again, he traces a trail of cool slickness between John's arse cheeks, circling the hole teasingly. He taps it, and John's hips jerk in reaction. He licks the corner of John's mouth. 'Is this what you want?'

In reply John cants his pelvis back in invitation. His voice has a slight tremor. 'Don't play around. You want it, too. Ah, god.' He release a shaking breath as Sherlock eases one finger into him, slowly moving it out and in, shallowly at first, then deeper. _'Sherlock.'_

[-' _John._ Let me in. Open up for me.'-] A second finger gently insinuates its way past the ring of muscle, and John's hands reach for Sherlock's waist, gripping hard, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks. His face turns blindly into Sherlock's shoulder, breath coming faster. The fingers twist and press, withdraw. Sherlock's left hand clenches and relaxes on John's buttock in the same slow rhythm. His breath is hot on the back of John's head, in between soft kisses over John's neck, his hair, his temple.

'Sherlock. _Sherlock._ God. That's it, that's it, yes. _More.'_ John's grip tightens bruisingly on Sherlock's waist when a third finger presses in, widening the entrance, gently twisting and loosening.

'I want to be inside you, John.' His lips brush John's ear. The mobile echoes his husky whisper, [-'I need it, to be close as flesh will allow. John, please _let me.'_ -]

' _Yes.'_

Sherlock withdraws his fingers and they switch positions, John leaning with his forearms resting on the table next to the mobile, legs spread. Sherlock rests his left hand on John's hip. With the other, he traces a hand down the strong back, the dip of the spinal column, splaying his hand at the base of the spine. Turning his head, John looks past his shoulder back at Sherlock. His lips are swollen and soft red, his pupils dilated. 'Don't make me wait.'

'I won't,' Sherlock promises, and the voice on the mobile adds in a low tone, [-'God, the _sight_ of you. Yes, look at me, John. I long to see you.'-]

'Soon. Please, soon, Sherlock.'

[-'Do you know what you do to me? It pushes me to the edge, seeing you like this. Wanting me.'-] Sherlock slicks up his straining penis, the glans shining and crimson. 'Tilt your arse up more. Good.'

He parts John's cheeks, rests the head of his cock against the slick hole and presses slowly in. John's open hands clench, and trembling open flat against the table. "Christ. Yes. _Yes.'_

Sherlock's mouth is open, his dark lashes trembling on his cheeks at the sensation. His hands trace patterns on John's back as they hold still, not moving, just feeling. [-'So long. It's been so long.'-]

He grasps John's waist and quickly leans in to drop a kiss on John's shoulder, rolling his hips forward as he does so. John cries out and spreads his legs a bit more. 'Jesus. Do it. Oh, god, more, Sherlock.'

Sherlock bites his lip and begins to thrust, long slow smooth strokes, hands squeezing John's waist.

[-'You are so right for me John. When I have you under me, everything is quiet and good. I hear you, I see you writhing under me, I want to touch and taste and take.'-]

John is panting hard, tilting his hips to meet each thrust.

[-'So alike, so right. It will be so good. Perfect, John, you are perfect.'-]

'Christ, Sherlock,' groans John. ' _More._ I need you.'

Sherlock's fingers clench hard and he snaps his hips forward. John's head jerks, and drops against his bicep. 'Please, please,' he begs. Sherlock obliges, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper.

[-'Look at me, John Watson. I want you to look at me, I want to _see you.'_ -]

John turns his head, and his dark eyes meet Sherlock's over the muscle of his arm. 'Sherlock.' His voice is muffled but the plea is clear. Sherlock bends lower, chest brushing the skin of John's back, and grasps John's straining penis, working it in time to his thrusts. John's hands are braced against the movement, his voice hoarse. 'Oh, oh, god _Sherlock...'_

[-'John. John, I'm getting close. Oh god, thinking of my cock in your arse... Your voice...'-]

'Nearly, _oh Christ Sherlock!_ Almost...'

Sherlock locks his other arm under John's chest and thrusts harder, deeper. ' _John. John_. Oh, close. Come on. Come for me, let me hear you.' John is trembling beneath him, hips angled to take more. [-'Fuck, that sound, so wet, and listen to those noises, nothing better...'-]

' _Oh.' n_ John stiffens, his face suffused. 'Oh. Oh. I'm coming, I'm -' Under his palm, Sherlock can feel the twitch and pulse of John's penis, the heavy warmth coating his hand. Sherlock listens to John crying out wordlessly, his muscles clenching tightly around Sherlock's cock, and it tips him over that bright edge.

'John... _John!'_

\---

"John. John! _Oh! JOHN!"_ Sherlock shouts, voice echoing through his flat, blind and deaf. There is a clatter, and a knocking on the wall from the next flat, growing louder. He ignores it, gasping.

 _John..._

\---

John's arms have given way, and he is lying on the kitchen table with Sherlock draped over him. Both are breathing heavily. Sherlock's tongue darts out to taste the skin behind John's jaw one last time, and John shudders slightly. His fingertips brush against the mobile, which continues to murmur, a susurrus of sub-conscious speech - Sherlock's thoughts.

[-'...found you...want you with me, John...such things I'll show you...what I feel, it's just...we are so alike...perfect for each other...I've been so lonely, stay. Stay with me... couldn't bear it...'-]

A long pale hand sweeps the phone away and cuts off the connection mid-phrase. John shifts slightly. 'Sherlock?'

"...It wasn't important.'

Sherlock braces an arm and levers himself up, disengaging from John's body with a gasp.

John pushes up slowly. His back is ramrod straight, hands loosely fisted, shoulders tensing up. 'Not important.'

Sherlock stares. There is a sinking feeling in his stomach. 'John. It's just a fantasy.'

John turns to face him, and abruptly he is fully clothed - shirt buttoned, coat, jeans. His walking stick has appeared in his right hand, and he looks down and then leans on it. He looks up, his lips tight. His eyes have changed – have turned a pale grey Sherlock knows all too well from his bathroom mirror.

'Just a fantasy. And even then, even in your _own mind_ you won't admit it. You can't say what you really want, what you really feel. Go on, then. Tell me.'

'John.' Sherlock takes a half-step, unsure of what to do. John shifts away from him minutely and Sherlock freezes. No. No. This is not what he wants. He wants to tell John about their suitability, about the things they will accomplish together. But he can't force the words out, in spite of himself. John sees, and nods grimly.

'Just what I thought.' He picks up his mobile from the table, and looks at it bitterly. 'This. This is one of the ways you can connect to me, Sherlock.' His icy eyes pin the taller man who stands silent. 'But you have to stop fooling yourself.'

 _Don't_. Sherlock's lips form the word soundlessly, but John shakes his head, and tucks the mobile away.

'When you can tell me how you feel... when you want to connect, _really_ connect - call me. You know how to reach me.' He turns to leave, and Sherlock reaches out -

"Oi! _Oi!_ Next time keep it down, wouldja! Or fuck Johnny boy more quietly, you wanker!'

There was a derisive laugh designed to provoke and another loud series of thumps from the wall he shared with the flat next door. It broke into Sherlock's fantasy, shredding his concentration. His eyes flew open. His face contorted with rage instantly and he leapt naked from the sofa. Snatching up Amy's discarded coffee mug, he slung it at the adjoining wall full strength. It smashed satisfyingly, china pieces scattering and a splash of coffee staining the wallpaper.

"If you minded your own damned business, you might see how your current girlfriend has been strangely misplacing your credit card statements and entertaining 'friends' with your cocaine stash when you are busy at the gallery _pretending to be an artist!"_ he bellowed at full volume.

Silence greeted his outburst. Sherlock breathed heavily, then his chin lifted.

That had been... unexpected. Obviously his imagination was seething with strange images that were untapped. But that last scene had to be an aberration – a tiny doubt rising to express itself. Firmly he quashed it.

 _John,_ he thought. _I will meet you. I have the best possible plan. Our similarities, the possibilities... It will work._

I'll make sure it works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, well. Not MUCH plot movement. Um. Here, have some sexy fantasy times?
> 
> They always have in some ways levels of meaning. Well, this one is fairly obvious at the end.


	29. Young Stamford

**January 29th, 2010**

'Save me from medical students, madmen and Sherlock Holmes,' thought Mike Stamford. He'd just finished up his morning lectures and was out for a walk. Healthy things, walks, and he'd been a bit concerned about his weight recently. So - a bit of exercise and he'd have his lunch in Russell Square Gardens today. It was a fine day for it - cold but bright and clear.

What a strange one, that Sherlock. Hot, then cold - you never knew if he was going to turn on the charm to wheedle the use of the lab's equipment, or cut you off at the knees with some observation about your choice of aftershave, the dinner you'd had the night before or your eating habits. Stamford half-smiled ruefully. Fine. So he's right - Mike needed to get out more, stretch his legs a bit. Too much time at a desk, too much take-away food, and suddenly there's Sherlock bloody Holmes looming over you like some great gawking black stork in that coat of his, making comments about Mike's need for a new set of clothes.

 _Have you put on weight? Your trousers look a little tight. Must be uncomfortable. Judging from your rubicund features, an exercise regime wouldn't go amiss. You should get out more, Mike, take a stroll. It's a fine day._

Easy for him, the man had got thin enough this past month or so as to be two-dimensional. He should try eating more, instead of going on at people about their insufficient trouser waistbands.

Git.

And what the hell had been that other thing he'd been banging on about? The man was utterly transparent sometimes - though he'd turn you to stone with a glance if you ever pointed it out. Going on and on about how pricey London is, and how desperate he is for a flatmate. Him, with that bloody designer coat! And then being so detailed in his needs - someone who has a strong stomach? Someone who perhaps knows something about lab-work or sciences, or even anatomy? Who wouldn't mind a messy flat and most of all, living in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes?

When Sherlock had said so self-deprecatingly, "But who would ever want me for a flatmate?" Mike had needed to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. Christ, Sherlock had been a hair's-breadth away from feigning kicked-puppy eyes, or wringing his hands like a third rate Coronation Street extra. The man had no clue that Mike could see though him sometimes. Sherlock Holmes... He'd never understand the madman, but god! He was nothing if not entertaining.

Mike sat at a bench nearby the fountain and pulled out his newspaper, thinking it over. Yes, clearly Sherlock was up to something. Damned if Mike could work it out just yet. Still, it was entirely possible the man needed a flatmate - pricey suits aside, he didn't seem to have any visible means of support. Still, who _would_ want Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate? It would try the patience of a saint.

 _Too right! I wouldn't do it for love or money, because I know what he's like. Rude. Moody. Bloody rude. You'd need to be completely desperate. Or insane. A thrill-seeker. Bomb-proof in temperament, yet able to put your foot down when Sherlock ran off the rails as he so often did._

'There's no such person', he thought and lifted his newspaper. The tick-tick sound of a walking stick impacting the pathway caught his attention and he looked up briefly, then again. A sandy-haired man was walking along, determinedly, head up, a slight crease between his brows. Mike's own brows drew together.

 _Why does he look familiar? It's been years..._

The man turned his head and glanced at Mike sitting on his bench. A brief assessment, and then the blue eyes turned forward again. He walked past. _John Watson? It is him -! He didn't recognize me. Bloody Sherlock was right, I have got fat._ Mike jumped to his feet.

"John. John Watson!"

Surprised, the man paused and turned, looking back over this shoulder. Stamford closed the gap, beaming. It _was_ him! Mike reintroduced himself, and John's face cleared. He transferred the stick to his left hand and shook Mike's hand, slightly embarrassed.

John Watson, after all these years! Mike was delighted. Tactlessly, he wondered aloud about what John had been doing all this time.

John looked at Mike, blinking. He stood squarely and clutched his stick a little more tightly. _Oh, damn._ He'd put his foot in it, Mike realized, as John answered with a pained smile.

"Got shot."

Mike nodded, feeling like a fool. He gestured toward his bench. "Look. Can I get you a coffee? It's been ages - I'd love to catch up." It was the least he could do after his faux pas.

The bright eyes scanned him once more, before John smiled agreeably.

"Would love one."

The conversation was friendly but awkward, in that way it is when the speakers haven't seen each other in years. John had willingly told him about his life in the service, the experience he'd gained as a doctor. They both avoided the reasons for his return, the obvious limp. John was just as pleasant, as easy-going as he'd been when they were younger, smiling easily. And still fit, damn him.

But when the topic had been exhausted and they'd moved on to living in London, Mike had been surprised. He'd made a joke referring to John's previous lifestyle as a student, and suddenly it was as if another man was sitting beside him, a cold-eyed soldier who'd spoken in clipped accents. It was shocking, the change.

"I'm not the John Watson -"

John broke off and looked away. To cover his confusion, Mike took another sip from his paper cup. No. No, not the John Watson he'd known. This weathered man had a hardness well-concealed under his unassuming manner. A sensation of danger that passed as quickly as it had appeared. An idea began to creep into Mike's mind. John loved London. No place suited him better, but he couldn't afford it. Be a damned pity if he had to move out of town. _What about -?_ No, John's sister was right out, for a variety of reasons. _Then, how about -?_ Mike thought of Sherlock's bizarre list of requirements in a flatmate, and a half-smile began to curve his lips up.

"I don't know, get a flat-share or something?" Mike made the suggestion in the most off-hand way he could manage. This could be... interesting. It wasn't like Sherlock didn't deserve it, after his comments concerning Mike's expanding girth.

John had smiled in honest disbelief. "Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled, staring at John's profile. _Yes. John Watson. Here's the man who fits the bill._ A capable, sensible man with unexpected depths. An ex-Army doctor. John could probably reign in the bloody rude madman, and if not? Well, he'd have a place in London until he was back on his feet. But somehow Mike was sure that John could hold his own against Sherlock Holmes.

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who's the first?" John looked suspicious and hopeful at the same time.

"I can introduce you, if you're interested. Think he still might be at Bart's. Are you free?"

"Yeah. I've nothing going on," John replied quite truthfully.

 _Perfect._

 _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small fill today. Exams time, oh joy.


	30. Short Interlude - Once

Interlude - Once.

Once upon a time, as fathers often do with their young sons, his father said to John, “Don't be such a crybaby.” The tow-headed boy did his best, rubbing away tears with a chubby fist and biting his lip. And thus it began.

Once when he was older, he found his mother with drenched eyes. He was too young to understand, but in the depth of her misery his mother said something that perhaps she should not have. “John, don't ever show you care too much - the other person will just take advantage of you.” And he wound his thin arms around her neck, trying to comfort her.

When he was a teen, Harry told him she was a lesbian, and he smiled and said, _I don't mind Harry, it's okay, it's fine with me._ But inside he hated it because he knew it was going to be a hard path for his sister to walk. Yet he loved her and so he made the proper face, lips curving up, despite his doubts. Because that's what Harry needed.

And once, when a boy at school slagged Harry's sexuality off in front of a group of friends, John had not hesitated to tackle the speaker to the ground and do his level best to pound his face in. There are insults that cannot go unanswered, and things that must be amended. It was not the last time he did this, either.

Once, as young lads do, he fell in love with a girl at uni who did not reciprocate his feelings and who then began dating his best mate. And though it was hard, he swallowed that bitter pill and tried not to let it bother him, tried to be happy for their sakes'. It worked - he'd stood up at their wedding.

When he was a young man he went to war for Queen and Country, because it was right. He did his duty. And he learned to control panic and fear in hostile situations, how to push through and just function. And then he learned to love it. Seriously love it, as meat loves salt - the tang, the completeness.

And in the same war, a visiting American sergeant had banned him from the nightly poker games for his own good. “You got too many tells, Watson. The blinking, the tongue - be like taking candy from a baby.” John had been offended and amused, and the stocky man had proffered, “On the other hand, could be useful if you ever have to tell a whopper - let 'em know you're being honest, when you're holdin' something bigger back. A taste of the truth, get what I'm saying? Come in handy when you're married.” And John had grinned, tossed in his cards and shook his head at the idea.

Many, many times in Afghanistan he'd been there at the end. Gripped a hand that was growing cold, lied and told a fellow soldier that it was all right, you'll be fine, rescue is coming, I've got you. And if things went well, the man would live, but often with irreparable damage. And sometimes they didn't, and John was not sure which was worse - the lies, or the calm way he told them, with his earnest doctor's face. But it had to be done. Some things must be done.

And John is not a man to turn away from things that need to be done, wrongs that need to be redressed, lessons that need to be taught. John does not shy away from difficult choices or the promise of danger.

Especially danger.

 

Especially these days. Danger was _exciting._

 

And this may be part of the reason he reacted the way he did, on that day - the day he met the man known as Sherlock Holmes.


	31. Congressus - Bart's

**January 29th, 2010**

 **  
**

"Afternoon!"

The tall man swept from the laboratory. John was left standing rigid, blinking, clutching his walking stick tightly.

But not just any man. _No._

John looked up at Mike, who was watching him very carefully. Mike half-smiled, as if in apology for the way the introductory meeting had gone. "Yeah. He's always like that." A trace of humour lingered at corners of his mouth, though the rest of his face was blandly cherubic.

"No need to apologise, Mike," John rejoined automatically. His mind was ticking over the encounter he'd just had, weighing it. "Um. You mean -? He's always like that? This was nothing special."

Mike shook his head, smiling wider. "Sherlock's always been a bit off his head, really. On the other hand, life would be continually interesting if you decide to flat-share with him."

John stared at him, lips set, face blank. Mike rolled a shoulder. "All right. Yeah, he can be rude. Brutally rude sometimes. Well, just look at how he treated poor Molly there. Typical Sherlock. Never seems to give a toss for other's feelings and opinions unless he needs something." He huffed a laugh.

At that, a smile of something like genuine pleasure slowly began to spread over John's face. Something in his reaction must have seemed odd, by the expression that sobered Mike's face. The other man straightened up, eyes flickering over John's face, John's upright military stance, John's hand clenched whitely on the walking stick.

"All right then, John? I mean, you don't have to take him up on his offer. It just seemed to me... " His voice trailed off as John's smile stretched even more into a wide grin, teeth bared. John chuckled, then coughed and wrestled back control of his tight vocal cords. _Right. Play nicely, John._ He licked his lips, and shook his head as if bemusement. Mike's worried look relaxed.

"No, no, Mike. I appreciate it. Really, I think it might just be the thing. Thank you." It was easy enough to make his voice pleasantly warm, with the anger still pulsing through his veins. But not just anger, no.

Resolve.

 _Thank you, Mike, for that last little push._

And thank you, Sherlock. I've decided. Now I know what course to follow, what needs to be done. Simple. Difficult, but simple.

You made it so easy for me.

 

\-----

 

 _**3 Minutes Earlier** _

 

Sherlock looked up at the opening of the door to the lab. Mike and... _yes yes yes!_ John. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face that his ploy had been successful - really, he hadn't expected Mike to cross John's path so quickly. He'd had several different scenarios ready to engineer it if needed.

 _Serendipity._ It could not have worked out better, he would admit it. He looked down at his experiment, excitement curling in his chest. Deliberately he recalled John's bitter questions, spoken with such venom during their last call.

 _'What do I really know about you, Hugh? Nothing. Who are you? What's your name? Where do you live? What are your habits? What do you do?'_

Sherlock's hands moved automatically - rinse the dropper, swirl the liquid in the petri dish, set it down. With his heightened state of mind, the thoughts flew by almost too quickly to grasp.

/ _John / you don't know me? / I will show you / intrigue you / have your focus on me / this connection / undeniable / it's me /_

He moved to his coat and pulled out his mobile.

 _Caution, Sherlock._ Do _not_ refer to your previous relationship - but let him know that you recognise him. Show him who you are. Lay everything out for him. Observe. _John_ must acknowledge their previous connection. _All else must follow from that._ John's _choice._

Sherlock's chest felt tight.

He sat down and ostensibly checked his phone's reception. It had two bars. _Never mind, just make an excuse. Speak._ He tapped the buttons a few times.

 _John - I know you, and I want to know more. Don't reject - ... just don't. Don't._

...

..

.  
 **Start over.**

 **.**

 **..**

 **...**

He took a breath, and spoke in a casual tone. "Mike..."

 

\-----

 

The man in the slim-cut suit scarcely looked up from his work as John and Mike entered. John's eyes passed over him him briefly but appreciatively - thin, but rather good-looking with that dark hair. Graceful, deft hands manipulated the lab equipment. _Mm. Is that him, then? The potential flat-mate?_ To cover his flare of interest, John made an off-hand comment about the changes at Bart's. But whatever reply Mike made was drowned out by the sudden white noise in John's head, as the other man opened his mouth for the first time.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" said the younger man carelessly. And John twitched, head flicking toward the source of the words - his only physical reaction to those resonant, familiar tones.

 _Is that...? It can't be..._

"Well, what's wrong with the land line?" asked Mike in mild irritation.

"I prefer to text."

 _That's - his voice, it's impossible, I don't fucking believe it... That sounds just like -_

Hugh.

John's eyes flickered, the thoughts crashing and piling up behind in the ugly manner of a motorway accident.

 _What the hell? / This can't be happening! / Does he know it's me? / No, John, of course not./  Stop it / stay calm / Calm / Give nothing away / Is it really him? / Does he recognize my voice?_ / Does he? / _Let's... test this._

"Er, here." John dug into his back pocket, sucking in a breath to steady his voice. He held his mobile up in invitation. _My hand is not shaking,_ he noted absently. _Mm._ The tall man caught the motion and looked at him.

 _He's looking at me. Oh, God. Please let it not be Hugh. Christ, this is... new, meeting a phone sex client, and it had to be, just had to be_ this _one, this good-looking bastard. Well. Go on then..._

Blue eyes met grey met directly for the first time, and John raised his brows, his gaze steady and open. "Use mine."

The slim man looked surprised and mildly pleased. He thanked John and stood, smoothing the line of his jacket. John focussed on the pleasant baritone fully and felt his stomach drop.

 _Oh, God._

"That's an old friend of mine." Mike gestured as broadly as a conjurer and somehow failed to introduce the tall stranger. "John Watson." John held out the mobile and the man took it casually, flicking it open and clicking through the menus with an ease that John envied.

 _Okay. All right,_ John thought, and shifted away, relaxing his militant stance slightly. _No reaction from him at all, nothing. That's... good. Slightly less awkward. I don't have a particularly memorable voice, after all. Perhaps he doesn't remember -_

And then the stranger - _Hugh_ \- just had to speak again. John's muscles locked up. _You. You do recognize me, don't you._ He cocked his head, disbelieving, an ember of fury kindling in his chest.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Hugh turned his head to look directly at John again, drawling the last word with the trace of a smile. He turned back to his text message, and John blinked. _You complete bastard._ He found himself utterly incapable of holding back his reply.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you -"

But Hugh cut across him as the door opened again. "Ah, Molly, coffee! Thank you." And he passed the mobile back to John carelessly, smiling at the young woman passing him a mug. _Smiling._ As if he was completely unaware that he had just done the equivalent of setting off an Improvised Explosives Device in John's thoughts.

 _What the bloody fuck is this? He knows it's me. Is he going to admit it? Apologise? There'd better be something like that or... Just what the hell -?_

Face set, John put his phone in his pocket. One part of mind swirled with speculation, the other listened in polite horror to the indifferent honesty with which Hugh de-constructed Molly's appearance, speaking to the air as he strolled away with the coffee she'd brought him. Watched as Hugh insulted her appearance _with his back to her,_ as if he couldn't even be arsed to do it to her face. Heard her small reply, the door swinging behind her as she fled.

 _This - this man... what the bloody hell is he doing -?_

Nobody behaves like this. Surely.

Hugh thumped the mug down after just one sip and turned to John. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John, caught up in his thoughts, looked up. His head was cocked in a way that his old mates knew foretold trouble. "Sorry. What?"

Hugh easily rattled off a number of what he considered his least attractive habits. John could only think incredulously, _He thinks those are bad habits? In comparison to what he's doing now? What he's already done to me?_ He was caught between an insane desire to laugh or shout.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Hugh said, and worst of all, tagged it with the most horrible smarmy smile John had ever seen.

 _Well. Aren't you amusing. Wait. What? Flatmates?_ John blinked to cover his surprise.

Hugh was already putting on his coat, as if it were a forgone conclusion, explaining how he knew John was here looking for a potential flatmate. "It wasn't a difficult leap," Hugh concluded, and the patronising look he gave John nearly caused his temper to slither from his grasp entirely.

John shifted, looked down at the floor to take a breath and looked back up. _Right. Hugh, you know me, you must know I know you. Stop with the fucking game. Just... say it. Admit it._

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

 _Tell me, Hugh. Be honest. You know I was abroad as a soldier because I told you, told you about Lizzy. Say it, say it SAY IT!_

But Hugh ignored the question, going on instead about the flat he'd found. He looked at John, face clear and open, and told John he was sorry. He _apologised._

"Sorry, I've got to dash, think I've left my riding crop in the mortuary."

The breeze of Hugh's passage brushed John's cheek as he struggled again for the fraying edge of his temper, found it. Lost it again, then grasped a few threads desperately.

"Is that it?" John's voice rang out strongly, challenging. He pivoted to face Hugh. Hugh turned back and thrust his hands in his coat pockets.

"Is that what." Hugh's voice is flat.

"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat." John's heart rate was picking up. He blinked at Hugh. Apparently the mask of polite irritation he wore was working, judging by Hugh's lack of concern.

Hugh was almost visibly bored. "Problem?"

John almost laughed. _Of course there's a fucking problem. Is this another experiment, you bastard?_ His teeth bared in a smile, and he had to look away briefly. His fingers were starting to tingle with the urge to just drop the cane and go for the throat, just throttle this man. John looked back at that polite, blank face and tried to explain just a few of the multitude of problems that sprang to his mind. _You. Us. This whole thing, whatever it is. Tell me, tell me! Is this a bloody game to you? One last chance to fuck with my emotions and head?_

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your _name."_ He weighted the last word significantly, not quite smiling in his anger.

 _Go on then, Hugh. Your move. Just one more chance. Say it. Apologise. Something, you complete wanker._

Hugh looked at John, grey eyes so piercing that for an instant John was breathless.

 _Oh. Christ._

His heart squeezed. _Just like during the phone calls, Jesus._ Having Hugh's focus on him over a telephone line was flattering. Having Hugh's full attention in person was to be exposed, secrets smoking away under the lens of that fierce intelligence. The room, his anger, Mike's watching eyes faded away.

And the moment passed, as did the breathless hot feeling, withering under the onslaught of Hugh's observations on John's occupation, his family, his therapy, his mental condition, his leg. As if Hugh didn't already know most of it already, tricked it out of John with his fucking experiment. As if he were _clever._ With a satisfied smirk and a quip he ducked out the door. "It's enough to be going on with, isn't it?"

John's heart was hammering again, the pulse echoing in his extremities like a war drum. He pressed his lips together. Christ. He hasn't felt like this since Afghanistan. _No. Be honest, John._ Since the last phone call he and Hugh had. Since they had severed the connection. John was buzzing with equal parts adrenalin and fury, utterly consumed. He wanted to fight or fuck something badly.

He hasn't felt this alive in a long time.

Hugh poked his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker street." He winked. Winked!"Afternoon!"

Sherlock Holmes. Well, now he had a name aside from Hugh.

Mike sketched a farewell as the dark head disappeared. John took a moment to dispel the red mist of conflicting thwarted desires, trying to organise his thoughts. He looked at Mike.

Mike smiled. "Yeah, he's always like that."

 _Thank you,_ thought John. _Thank you._

His thought process spun on beneath the cover of small talk, commenting on Sherlock's mad ways, thanking Mike for the introduction, exchanging contact information. _You see, Sherlock? Social pleasantries have their uses._

 _You bastard. You utter, fucking bastard._

Sherlock Holmes. _Hugh._

Bleeding, fucking _hell._

 _He knew it was me._ Spouting all that rubbish about my life. What game is he trying to play? Why is he pretending we've never met? Is the experiment not done, Hugh? Is that it? Or are you too removed from humanity, too walled off to just come clean, admit you were a dishonest shit?

 _Never mind._ You know what you need? A lesson in bleeding manners. Your behaviour with other people - with me! It's just not on. I will have your apology, I'll have your confession one way or another, Sherlock Holmes, and to hell with your game. You made the choice so easy for me. You can't treat people like that. _You cannot treat people like that. You fucking CANNOT TREAT PEOPLE LIKE THAT._

You want to play?

Then let's play.

 _My turn,_ thought John, and smiled.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock stalked down the corridors of the teaching labs at Bart's, hands tucked into pockets. Satisfaction was like the golden taste of honey in the back of his mouth. Ah, finally. Meeting John face to face, hearing that mild voice - it soothed some tightness he hadn't know he carried within him. He fancied he'd done what he'd promised - he'd played his cards out. _John - see me. This is me._ He'd also kept to his word and left the decision to continue their acquaintance in John's hands. _Don't disappoint me._

All things considered, that had gone extremely well. Sherlock had not needed to suffer a black eye from an enraged sex phone line worker that had been outed. Mike Stamford was stuffed with the smugness of a Good Samaritan, and John... well. John was well and truly intrigued, if Sherlock was any judge, and he rather felt he was. Probability of John meeting him at the new flat, 221B Baker street? Probability of around 0.9 or more - much better than he'd anticipated.

Still. He hadn't expected... Well, the lack of recognition. Sherlock had planned on playing the scene according to John's reaction to the realisation that he, Sherlock was 'Hugh.' He'd expected unpleasantness, anger, shock. He'd expected to have to make excuses to John, to be able to present his best case for their living and working together. He was sure he could persuade John. There was something between them, something John gave him that made Sherlock...

Anyway. Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear it, and reviewed the scene mentally. Was John exceptionally obtuse? Could it be that John had failed to recognise his voice? Highly unlikely, and yet... Sherlock had been rattled by the offer of John's phone. The intimacy of the gesture (considering their shared history,) contrasted sharply with the utterly friendly, non-committal, _blank_ look with which John had handed over the mobile.

Then there was the leg. From their previous conversations, Sherlock had thought John had some disability... No. Not quite right. Like a fool, he'd _assumed,_ and John hadn't corrected him. Very canny. The leg was obviously fine - there was no physical problem at all. The error vexed him. So of course Sherlock had gone on the offensive, dropping some heavy handed-hints about John's service, alluding to what he already knew of John.

 _Respond! Give me something to work with._

John had been nonplussed, then irritated, then mildly angry. Sherlock had anticipated _something._ Perhaps, 'Excuse me, but don't I know you from...?"

Of course. _Of course!_ John was a phone sex worker. A job with unsavoury connotations to the general populace. One that valued privacy and anonymity - John would never allude to their having met in such a manner in front of Mike Stamford. Damn. Still - Sherlock would have a chance to provoke some reaction from John tomorrow. John would come and Sherlock would do his best to charm him into staying. Perhaps if he was lucky, there would be a case - John had seemed quite interested in his work. John would stay.

They would be flatmates.

Sherlock could scarcely wait.

He burst into the milky winter sunlight, eyes immediately scanning for a taxi. It was getting on; he was supposed to be at Baker street in half an hour to oversee the removal firm and make sure nothing was broken. He'd like to get some things unpacked before John arrived tomorrow. He was going to be late, but considering the reason for his tardiness, he felt it was worth it.

 _John was worth it._

 

\-----

 

John sat on his neatly-made bed in his tiny flat, thinking.

Well. That had been... infuriating. John's temper had cooled – somewhat. Sherlock Holmes was rude, as Mike had said. Casually, unfeelingly rude. He also apparently knew who John was, yet had no made no overtures to explicitly say so, made no hint of apology. Well, of course, Mike had been there. Bit embarrassing, asking about that in front of others. John pictured Sherlock eyeing him from his superior height, asking the un-askable in that pleasant baritone.

"I beg your pardon but don't I know you from that gay sex line I contacted? Did you not once describe in excruciatingly arousing detail how you would perform fellatio upon me?"

John's eyes crinkled at the idea. Mm. No. The man did seem to be a bit proud. Posh, too, judging from his clothes. John wondered what type of flat such a man would have - surely someone with a coat like that had a sufficient income to afford his own?

Still. John had a feeling that he was unlikely to ever get even something as honest as, "Sorry I was such an arse to you last time we talked," from Sherlock. And that was so, _so_ inadequate for what had passed between them. John was absolutely not going to bring it up first - Hugh had to apologise. Sherlock had to apologise.

John pulled out his mobile and clicked through to 'Sent' messages.

 **[If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH.]** _What?_ Something to do with his work with the police? He'd said he was a consultant. Interesting.

 _And there's the problem right there,_ thought John moodily. _John Watson, be honest with yourself._ He could not deny the interest he felt in the madman. Sherlock Holmes was a stunner, damn him. And utterly unfit to be about in general society - someone would murder him in a fury sooner or later. 'Hugh's' little experiment had burned John down to the ground emotionally. And yet he'd felt such joy at matching wits with a mind of quicksilver - they'd had such a mental affinity... And now they had met, never mind the circumstances, and John's heart had pounded. He'd forgotten about his leg and his colourless life.

All right. Yes. He'd wanted to kill the man in a fury too. But still.

Sherlock Holmes was infuriating, sexy, intelligent, deceptive, rude and possibly bad for John. It would be utterly foolhardy for John to meet him again, much less consider him as a flatmate.

Was he going to meet Sherlock Holmes tomorrow?

 _Oh, yes. Definitely._

John moved to his desk and powered up his laptop. Data. He needed it. Time to Google Sherlock Holmes and glean what he could. Best informed is best prepared. He'd meet Sherlock and give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps when they were alone, Sherlock would try to bring the subject up - the phone sex, the experiment. John wouldn't. _Not for the world_. If they were ever to get on together - and it was a big if - Sherlock had to do it. He had to apologise. Otherwise John could never really trust his motives.

He tapped in the search string. Here. The Science of Deduction?

He clicked through, and began to read.

Ten minutes later, his phone chimed. His concentration broken, he glanced away from the news article. He'd found a news report of that odd crime scene Sherlock and he had discussed - the murderous plywood case. There was no mention of an outside consultant. Was the man lying again? Or did the police just not want to disclose the involvement of an outsider?

He picked up his mobile. **[-Text received.-]**

 **7 pm, 221B Baker Street.**   
**Nearest Underground station**   
**is Baker Street, Circle Line.**

 **SH**

His brow furrowed. How had he - never mind. John hadn't offered his contact information. Bit not good, nicking the number when he'd borrowed John's mobile. On the other hand, when one had a blog site, one started the process of sharing too much information. And why the reminder? And the directions? Bit patronising, those. As if he didn't know London.

His mobile chimed in his hand once more. **[-Text Received-].**

 **Bus to Baker Street**   
**on Marylebone Road**   
**also convenient.**   
**Until tomorrow.**

 **SH**

John huffed a laugh. All right. Maybe Sherlock was keen for his own dubious reasons. Experiment? Or was this Sherlock being considerate of John's bad leg even though he thought it was psychosomatic? Odd thought.

John shrugged. Speculation could wait. Time for some dinner. No need to visit Hackney or Brixton tonight - he'd had enough excitement for one day.

He paused, thumb on his mobile. Then he punched out, **[Understood. See you tmrw.]** and pressed send. He smiled briefly, and pushed back from his desk.

 _Until tomorrow, Sherlock. It should be interesting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: If you hadn't realized previously from other hints in the story - the use of the exact dates, John's blog, etc., I had always planned to take this - the craziest most implausible story ever - and merge it with episode canon in my own way. We have now hit that point. If you don't care for re-treads of the episodes, you may want to come back in, oh, say 5 or 10 chapters. I mean, if you are here for sexy bits. I'll let you know. I can just label it 'Fellatio Chapter' or something. Just kidding.
> 
>  
> 
> Yes. MtC is now canon backstory. Bet you never expected THAT when you started to read this, did you? Yes, I had planned this from the start.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, yay! They met! Although I'm sure you can tell they have issues to work on before we get back to sex or phone sex. you did see the tag that said Establishing Relationship? Right before the one that says Pining? (Okay, yes there will be one more sexy fill before the end-of-story sex trope.)


	32. Interlude - Cogitatio, or Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note to those still following on LiveJournal - got stuck and haven't updated there, so no need to run over and check. My apologies. But I am trying to keep things rolling here at least, I have a tiny backlog I can post at intervals while I ponder and scuffle with the block.
> 
> Secondly, this is pretty much the last fantasy fill piece until we get to the 'real' sex at the end of the story. I did say I wanted to do one last one to balance Sherlock's. and this is it: John's.

_**Interlude -** _ _**January 30th, early morning** _

 

 _**  
** _

It was dark. John curled up, safe and cradled. He rocked in time with his slowing heart beat, left, right, left...right...left... right... The movements grew slower, lessening as the darkness grasped him more firmly. His breathing slowed. Slowed...slowed. So comfortable. Velvet deep. Quiet. Stillness beckoned. So much better. Just - let go.

His breath fluttered, released on a long exhale. And then nothing. His mouth opened and the black pressed in. Yes. There. In. John felt himself emptying out, everything tranquil.

Left... right... lef-

A thump set his heart hammering again, and he gasped, eyes opening wide. _Still black still safe let me be leave me alone safe hidden!_

There was a scrabble, a scratching noise. A crack of dim light shone into his safe place, and John shrank from it, hiding his eyes. There was a rending noise, and more light flooded in. A terror bubbled in his chest. _No, no! Don't! Oh god oh god it's going to -  
_

More and more of his enclosure was torn away, cast aside with crashes of metal. His folded legs were exposed, an arm, a hip. Ruthless hands reached in, grasped the shoulders of his armoured combat vest and wrenched him free, his limbs trembling and flopping.

There was a mutter of deep voice, broken up with the snap and static of a radio.

 

\- - -atch Land Rover - - - four confirmed dead - - -

(she wanted to be a doctor) (tell me more)

\- - - send back-up - - - IED by roadside - - -

(current subject also medical professional)

 

He was jolted, dragged out from the damaged vehicle (burning plastic, scent of iron, Land Rover) into a dim place. The smoke from the wrecked vehicle puffed acridly and spread as it reached the ceiling of the (bland featureless beige) room. Blinded with the light, John panicked. His mouth opened and closed.

 

 _they have me pain now pain and questions help HELP ME_

 _  
_

The unseen hands grasped at limbs roughly, patting him down, skimming over the helmet, the dusty cloth. He breathed harder, trying to find his voice. Why couldn't he speak? A scream was trapped in his throat. The more he tried to voice it the wilder his heartbeat became, spinning up the insistent thrum nearly drowned his thoughts. The voice droned on as the metal of the burning Rover pinged and sang in his bedsit.

 

\- - - invalided home- - - injury sustained but where- - -

(signs of panic) (possibly induced from desert scenario)

\- - -subject does not voluntarily open up- - -or won't- - -

(more data needed)

 

His hands ineffectually pushed at the exploring hands. He rolled over on his side and stretched weak arms toward his bed, trying to reach the dark safety beneath. The more the droning voice spoke, the fainter his movements became. His fingers scrabbled weakly at the cheap carpeting, the movements spastic. His mouth moved in the shapes of words or sobs but neither passed his lips - the sounds were clogged in his chest. The hands dug at his neck, lifted the round tags free.

 

\- - - Service in Afghanistan confirmed- - -Watson, John - - -RAMC- - -

(interesting)

\- - - nature of injury unconfirmed - - -

(injured where) (data)

(go deeper)

 

Large pale hands reached under his chin, unclipped the helmet. The weight of the armoured vest was stripped away, his belt, the boots. His uniform, brown and crusted with dried blood came away like the dried carapace of some insect. Beneath was a long white coat, the one he wore doing rounds as a student doctor. But he wasn't... this wasn't -

 

\- - -subject carries walking stick- - -

(unnecessary)

\- - -several layers still between us- - -more exposure needed- - -

(John Watson) (I will know you)

 

Hands fisted in the white cotton and yanked. The carpeting of the bedsit blurred as John was dragged through the door, fingertips catching and bumping. Rough weave gave way to the polished flooring of Bart's corridors. Legs walked around and past him as he lay face up on the polished concrete, blinking into fluorescents. Voices murmured. The dark shape leaned over him, pale eyes blazing with interest.

'A mate of Mike Stamford's, a former student here at Bart's teaching school. _I see._ A doctor.'

John's eyes rolled, looking for help. Why would no one stop? Could they not see what was happening here? But abruptly the corridor was empty and quiet. Sherlock knelt on one knee beside him and began to unbutton the white coat.

'Not enough data. So many things to uncover, so many layers.' A finger tweaked his Bluetooth earpiece from John's ear, pulled his mobile from his pocket. 'Sex line worker. Unusual. Mobile from Harry. Harry - a brother?' His shoes were flung over a thin shoulder, clattering somewhere behind. 'Right shoe is heavily scuffed. Limp appears to be psychosomatic.'

'Stop,' breathed John. 'Stop it.'

Sherlock pulled him to a seated position and braced him against his leg with an arm behind. His hair brushed John's cheek as he curled over John, working the lab coat off his shoulders.

'Jeans, checked shirt - of sufficient quality but not extravagant. Black jacket. Unobtrusive clothing, completely ordinary. You aren't ordinary, John. Why are you trying to hide? This is obvious camouflage.' The eyes pinned him as helplessly as an insect to a collector's board. 'I haven't been able to thoroughly examine you. Yet. I will.'

Sherlock's fingers moved down his shirt, flicking open buttons, brushing John's hands away when he tried to stop him. Sherlock bent closer, lips near John's temple, words soughing through hair, puffing over his skin. John shuddered at the sensation while cool hands continued to pluck at his clothing.

'An educated man, intelligent and perceptive. Suffering. Sincere. Forthright. Suicidal. Brave and honourable. Humorous. And you see me, John, you see me. _Amazing._ ' The lips brushed his skin, low voice vibrating.

John's clothing had disappeared. They were in a white featureless room, but John only had eyes for the pale face, the long neck, grey eyes. John's skin prickled as Sherlock's gaze traversed his length. His heart still pounded double time, but it wasn't panic now. Apprehension and arousal tightened his body. Sherlock still held John cradled to him, the warmth of his body penetrating his dark suit and sinking into John's skin.

'I need more, John. I want to know all of you.'

John's voice was stronger this time. 'You can't.'

'I will. I've already started peeling all your barriers.'

John's pulse leaped in dread and desire. He felt horribly exposed and vulnerable - this was too dangerous. Arousing. He rolled his head in negation against Sherlock's arm. 'My secrets are mine.'

'You won't give them to me?'

'No. I won't. I don't trust you.'

Sherlock's grey eyes were piercing, the corners of his mouth pulling in, not quite smiling. 'John. You leave me no choice.' His hand lifted, thumb casually brushing a nipple as his palm rested in the centre of John's chest. 'Just give them to me, John, just give yourself over to me. I'll be your all, I'll know you through and through, just let go, let go. _I want all of you.'_

John arched as a sharp dart of pleasure and pain ran through his body, head snapping back. 'No,' he gasped. Sherlock's hand began to sink through skin. John felt terror and lust in equal measure as he twisted in a grip of iron.

 _Let go let go of me! Don't stop! You can't I won't! Oh god oh god yes yes no please…stop... please -  
_

The voice continued to murmur in his ear as the long fingers pierced John - hurtful and sweet, that slow penetration. _Oh, god._ His lids fluttered, and his head fell back even as he writhed. _Please._ So close, so dangerous, so seductive... just let –

"NO!"

John twisted upright on his bed, heart thrumming. He gasped, sweat prickling his body.

  
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus fuck. He swiped at his forehead and fell back. His erection was a painful weight at his groin. He half groaned a laugh. _Oh, John Watson. You are so fucked in the head._

 _  
_

It didn't take a therapist to understand that dream or the conflicting needs within himself. That thin line, between anger and passion. Oh god, that had been…

His penis twitched. Yes, well. Horrible. Frightening. And sexy as fuck. _God.  
_

Well. This erection wasn't going to subside any time soon. Time for a little rough and ready therapy of his own. See if he could tame his wayward subconscious. Physician, heal thyself. He threw the thin blanket aside and hitched the waistband of his bottoms down, kicking one leg free. His left hand drifted down, fingers running lightly over the hot skin of his erection, back and forth.

Where to begin? Home pitch advantage, then. He closed his eyes with a little sigh.

 

\-----

 

 

 _John stood in his pale DPM fatigues at the top of a ridge._ He brushed briefly at the white patch with its red cross on his left arm, and enjoyed the familiarity. The colours. The sky was a deep clear blue, darkening slightly as the sun began its descent into arid desert scrub-land. The lambent glow of that hour just before sunset bathed him with heat and John closed his eyes, a smile stretching his lips. Yes. Here. Home. Below, the dry wash of a gully stretched away into a street lined with blank windows and doorways of shops - grey and cold, chilly in the shadow of the ravine. London.

A tall figure in a long coat prowled up the quiet street, flickering into brightness with each stray beam of Afghani sun that pierced between crowded buildings. Sherlock paused several metres back from the boundary of dimness and sun. The curly head dropped, looking at the way the tarmac of the road broke up, became black gravel, then brown, then dun chips and dirt. He walked back and forth, examining, then his head lifted. Even from his position on the ridge, John felt the look as if he'd been physically touched. Sherlock cupped his hands.

'John! John, come down here! I need you!'

 _So you say._ John lifted a shoulder in acquiescence and swiftly made his way down the shoulder of the ridge, boots slipping in controlled side-slides, arm out for balance. He walked easily to the terminus between light and grey. He stood at parade rest, thumb locked over palm behind his back. He allowed his eyes to run the length of Sherlock's figure, starting from the polished shoes, up those absurdly long legs, that fitted shirt, past the scarf. He looked at Sherlock's mouth a long moment before he met his gaze squarely.

'You called?'

Sherlock was looking at him with that unnerving focus. 'You - are not what I expected.'

'Fair enough. Neither are you.'

'What did you expect?'

John blew out a breath, as if he were considering. 'I dunno. A mouth breather?' Sherlock looked offended, and John laughed. 'No, not really. I wasn't. Expecting to meet you, that is. And then of course, there you were. And so... so -'

'Fascinating?'

'Infuriating.'

'Oh.'

'And fuckable,' said John honestly. Sherlock looked uncertain, then his face smoothed out.

'Thank you. You, as well.'

'You think so?'

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. 'It suits you.'

'What's that?'

'This.' He gestured. 'This setting. It's golden and bright. It... fits you.'

'It does.' John looked at the tall man calmly. 'Just as London suits you, Sherlock.'

'John. Won't you join me?' Sherlock extended his his gloved hand in a courteous gesture. His eyes never left John's face.

John shook his head. 'Oh, no. That's not how it works. You say you want to know me, you pull me to pieces - you really want me? Step over. Reach me, if you can.'

Sherlock began to move but John held up a hand to forestall him. 'Balance. Getting what you want - don't assume it is simple. Not ordinary, me.'

Sherlock merely looked scornful. John shook his head, his lips curving up. 'God. Even in my head you don't get it. In a way, it's disappointing. Satisfying too, I must need this. Well, then.' He stepped back and suddenly there was about twenty metres of distance between him and Sherlock. John raised a hand , stepped back again and suddenly Sherlock was one hundred metres away down the street. The hum of traffic rose and people suddenly appeared, walking, carrying shopping, oblivious to the dark-coated figure. They jostled him as they brushed past.

'John!' Sherlock's bellow was scarcely lessened by distance, and John saw the lean man begin to move purposefully. He'd only taken about twenty paces when he was stopped in his tracks, hands flying up to his neck. His scarf was bizarrely snagged on a lamp post, and no matter how he tugged it wouldn't come free. Ducking his head, Sherlock left it dangling like a limp blue pennant. Several more steps and he was whirled around off-balance as a young man on a skateboard caught at his hands as he swooped by. Fingers tugged, and dark gloves were carried away by the youth. John grinned, and began to move back to his ridge, climbing and still looking behind in the way you can in dreams.

'I see what this is,' growled the deep voice. 'Divesting me of my accoutrements in some symbolic gesture. I won't be humbled, John.' A shuffling bent figure moved in front of Sherlock, stepping left as he moved right, right as he moved left in a bizarre parody of a dance.

'Better give that coat to that old homeless lady, Sherlock. You'll never get past her otherwise,' called John, and giggled merrily as Sherlock did so ungraciously. The woman walked past, tugging the wool free without even looking at Sherlock. The long coat was bundled into a filthy carrier bag and Sherlock glared at the silhouette on the ridge. John sat on a patch of dry grass, elbows resting on his spread knees. John smiled at the expression on his face. 'I'm not easy, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's face contorted with annoyance, then his expression changed, calculating. His lids dropped, his shoulders softened and his mouth fell open a little in a soft smile. He began to move forward in a languid stroll. Rolling a shoulder, he slowly shrugged free of his suit jacket, running his hands over his chest and down his arms in a caressing fashion. The jacket fell from him and was caught up by a bicycle messenger speeding past. Long fingers toyed with the buttons of his pearl grey shirt, and John swallowed.

Christ. _Yes._ The man was made for it, this exhibitionism. Those long limbs, the pale skin being revealed inch by inch, glowing in the grey dimness of London. The people on the street paid no heed at all to the half-dressed man moving amongst them. A shirt sleeve fluttered and was caught in the closing door of a minicab at a curb. Sherlock did a twirl and was free of the fabric, making the movement look smooth and natural. The cab drove away with the shirt dragging. Sherlock grinned at John as he walked as easily as though he stripped in the street every day.

 _Look at that,_ John thought. _They never really see him at all. He said as much. What idiots._ The idea made him feel covetous and greedy. _I did. I do. I will. If it all works out. But first..._ He leaned back, legs spread even wider and palmed his erection through the fatigues, half-closing his eyes.

Sherlock's shoes and socks had fallen to the wayside like dark petals. The hem of one trouser leg had been snagged by a pedestrian's stiletto heel as she stood at a bus stop waiting, reading messages on her phone. Without a pause Sherlock popped open the fastenings and pushed the trousers down and off along with his underwear, stepping free gracefully. His eyes pinned John again, and Sherlock nonchalantly cupped his half-tumescent cock, lifting it against his belly and pressing it hard before his hand fell away. John held his gaze, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up as he saw where John's hand moved slowly. He reached the boundary and paused. He worked off his watch and held it out, dropping it into the jacket pocket of a business man who walked by. He looked at the demarcation between grey pavement and sand and sunlight and back to John.

'Go on,' John said in a low tone. 'Come to me. Covered in dust and sweat. I want to see the muscles in those legs flexing. I want to hear your breath.' Sherlock's smile flashed, and he stepped into the sun, walking easily, long toes sinking into dusty earth. His hands caught at rocks, pulling him upwards, and John leaned back on one arm.

Sherlock should have looked ridiculous. He did not. Unselfconscious, he was as much a part of this place as any desert creature. His skin glowed like alabaster in the slanting rays of the sun. His hair was touched with chestnut and russet. _Fuck,_ John thought. _You're going to give me some bad nights, aren't you._

As if he had heard John speak the words aloud, Sherlock said, 'We are going to suit very much, John. It will be enjoyable, sharing a flat with someone that is so compatible. Well, perhaps not mentally, few are. There are so many unintelligent people in the world. But you, at least, are quick, you've managed to match wits with me several times, unlike -'

Sherlock's voice stopped mid-sentence, and the hand clutching the thin branch of a shrub clenched in a spasm. He leaned forward, then pulled back, touching his throat carefully. His eyes widened. 'John...?'

John's voice came clear and firm. 'Sherlock. Tell me what you think of that girl. Molly.'

'Easily manipulated. Meek. Inferio -' His voice broke again. John shook his head.

'No. Wrong. You'll never reach me that way.'

'What, by being honest about my opinions?'

'By being arrogant. By being casually cruel. You have to let it go. Or this won't happen.'

Sherlock's lips pressed tight. He considered, looking up at the figure above limned in gold. John wet his lips and rocked his hips upward, pressing his trapped erection more firmly into his hand. His head tilted back and he spoke in low tones. "God, _yes._ Keep looking at me, Sherlock, I want you to watch me. You don't have to, you can always choose not to, but god! I want to see the look on your face, I want you to see me come. Those eyes watching as my face flushes up and I'll groan your name - Sherlock, _Sherlock._ The wet slide of ejaculate down my stomach, over my hand, and I will keep my gaze on you, I won't look away, you will be all I see when I..."

Sherlock made a choked noise, and surged up the last few metres, falling to his knees between John's legs. He was panting, cheeks pink from exertion. There was a clatter beside him and John saw a black mobile phone lying in the dust. He sat up.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and a little lost. He gestured at the phone, clenched his fist at his throat and made a throw-away gesture at the phone. John picked up the phone as if to turn it on, but Sherlock stopped him, hand on John's wrist, curly hair tossing as he shook his head vehemently. John gentled him, hand resting on the dark curls and Sherlock stilled.

'Shh,' John said. "'No, it's all right, you've done well, Sherlock, that was brave and wonderful. It was necessary. It had to be done. But I'm so glad, I'll take care of it, take care of you, I promise.' Sherlock's head pushed into John's palm insistently. He raised his other hand to to Sherlock's head. He smoothed the dusty tangles, ran his hands over Sherlock's cheeks, his shoulders. Sherlock sighed, and then raised his chin deliberately high, looking down his nose at John.

'I know, Sherlock, I know.' John stroked that neck, that amazing long neck, and wrapped his fingers around the warmth. He leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear.

'You like this, don't you. When I slide my fingers up that soft throat of yours - god, your skin looks like it would bruise with just a kiss - and my hand rests just here, under the mylohyoid, pressing firmly. Just like that first call. You can't talk like this - but you gave me your voice anyway, Sherlock, you did so well, leaving all that behind. Trusting me.' His thumb traced small circles on Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock leaned into the grip harder. John smiled fondly, dark curls tickling his nose. 'Greedy bastard, always wanting more.'

He carefully turned Sherlock's head, sliding his hand down so his forefinger rested in the dip at the base of his throat. His nose dragged along the skin of Sherlock's cheek and their lips met. There was pressure, soft skin, a swift breath, the mystery of a mouth opening under his. John's eyes were open, as were Sherlock's and the intimacy of this, blue eyes and grey watching, pupils dilating was scorching. _Sherlock,_ John mouthed, and the other man's hands swooped up to clasp John's face, his thumbs brushing John's eyes closed. John allowed this, allowed Sherlock the privacy of examining his face - the fine laugh lines, the tan, the flush mantling his cheekbones. Because, after all, Sherlock was silent and there should be balance.

John pressed closer, hooking an arm around Sherlock's waist, pressing the tall man's erection between them. Sherlock inhaled sharply, and the kiss grew deeper, delving. Slowly they sank back together, Sherlock cupping the back of John's head to cushion it. His other hand began to work at John's uniform, hand sliding under to ruck up the top. His hips ground against the tumescence in John's pants. John hissed when a finger found a nipple and pinched sharply. ' _Yes._ God, yes, you rude bastard.'

Sherlock's mouth curved against his and he moved back with a last tug of teeth and a lick at John's lower lip. He sat back and began to work open the dusty trousers. John's head lifted when long fingers released his erection. 'That's it Sherlock, I want your hands on me, want those long fingers working me...' He panted, eyes half-closed as Sherlock grasped him firmly and stroked, thumb sliding over the head. And when the kiss-swollen mouth dropped to pull his aching cock deep in one swift motion, John groaned. 'Fuck. Yes. _Sherlock.'_

John's eyes slid closed, head falling back as he concentrated on the sensations. The tongue tracing the soft underside, the lips pulling gently and sliding up and down on his glans before taking him deep yet again. 'There, just like that, oh Christ yes, suck harder you madman! Think you are so clever but that mouth, Jesus! _More!_ God -!' John's breath came faster, and faster still when Sherlock scooped an arm beneath his hips to pull him even closer, his free hand resting loosely around the base of John's cock. His boot heels made strange patterns in the dirt as his body began to tighten. 'Don't stop, don't stop you rude bastard, oh sweet Christ, oh! I'm there, god that tongue, don't stop! Don't... Sherlock... _Sherlock!_ _'_

 

 _\-----_

 

 _  
_

The name echoed in the dark room as John's body went taut, quivering as warmth slipped over his fist. His hand moved once, twice, then fell away as he relaxed all at once, gasping. Yes. Yes, that was better. His heart rate began to slow, and he sighed. He reached for the tissues at his bedside and began to wipe himself up. Glancing at the clock he noted that it was still too early to get up properly. Good. He was feeling muzzy, replete with satisfaction.

He briefly thought about what he'd just done - masturbated to a fantasy about his past sex-line caller, potential flatmate and tormentor as the central figure, and he smiled. If only life were that kind and interesting. Still. Possible excitement tomorrow at Baker Street - he could hardly wait to see what Sherlock would do. He hoped an apology would figure in the day's events. He'd see. John pulled up his bottoms, flipped the blanket over himself and turned on his side.

Sleep came easily and was dreamless this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I said above - pretty much the last sexy fill until the end.
> 
> The balance to Sherlock's, wherein we get to see that John's mind is somewhat more orderly - possibly because it's his area of expertise due to his job, or a certain amount of maturity.


	33. Mutuum Deceptio or Mutual Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys play a game, and neither seems to be winning.

**January 29th 2010**

Sherlock lay on the sofa in 221B Baker street, Blackberry in hand, surrounded by a chaos of half-unpacked boxes. The sofa was quite good, really - long. The essentials had arrived today. His bed was set-up but unmade, his suits were in the wardrobe. He'd got some lab equipment out, but hadn't yet found which box contained his laptop. No matter.

He'd been checking John's blog daily since he'd found it. He'd been inordinately thrilled by yesterday's entry. He reread it now, savouring it. _28th January._ [Serial suicides]! John had an interest in what constituted Sherlock's main area of work? Very good. Perhaps he'd inspired John. He'd have to manufacture some reason to bring John along on his next case. Having a medic of his own to give opinions would lend Sherlock some gravitas when he went head to head with Anderson. He hummed in approval at the thought.

But then the melancholy tag to the entry did not bode well. [Stuff's happening to other people.]

'Really, John?' he thought. 'Friend's marriages and murders count as important events compared to diving into traffic and nearly getting yourself knifed? You must be in a bad way. Not that I expect you to blog about that - the therapist wouldn't approve of your brand of self-therapy.'

Today, now - excellent! A new entry.

 _January 29th._ [A Strange Meeting.] Hm. Unpromising title. [Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me.] Sherlock worried at his lip. Troubling. Again, the refrain of 'nothing happens to me.' Such a call for help. Why did none of the people commenting on the blog remark upon this? _John needs things to happen to him._ Sherlock read on.

[But today, something did. Something happened.] _Yes. I happened!_ He scrolled down through the entry.

[Mike didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me...] _Of course I know who you are, John. You know I know, don't you? I wish you had said or done something to indicate this._

[I googled him when I got back to the flat...] Very good. John was definitely interested, then. Sherlock wondered if John would guess that Sherlock would have done the same. His brow creased. Would John have written this blog entry with that in mind, that Sherlock might be reading it? Useless speculation. He read on.

[I think he might be mad...arrogant...quite rude...looks about 12?] _Rude. Not good. I look like a child? Was that good or bad?_

[...clearly a bit public school...] Ambiguous statement. [...mad...] _Yes, yes, all right, John!_ Apparently Sherlock had overplayed his role during their meeting.

[...strangely likeable...]? [Charming...]? _Surely that didn't negate_ 'mad.'

[So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.]

Sherlock lowered his phone, eyes on nothing. He liked the sound of that. Well, not being thrice called mad, but... 'me and Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock's mouth relaxed. Overall, it had gone well. John was definitely meeting him tomorrow. Perfect. He touched his fingers to his lips, then slid them down to rest gently on his throat, fingers stroking the skin under his jaw. His eyes slid closed.

Yes.

 _John Watson and I._

 

\----

 

 **January 30th, 2010**

John used the door knocker (yes, 221B Baker street, no chance of having forgot it, _thank_ you, Mr. Holmes.) A taxi behind disgorged a passenger and he turned to see the man himself. They shook hands and made polite small talk while they waited. Not that Sherlock Holmes seemed to understand how polite conversation worked. Typical behaviour, as John remembered from their phone calls. Sherlock was explaining how the landlady owed him a favour for a case concerning her spouse.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John was impressed in spite of himself.

"Oh no, I ensured it," smiled Sherlock Holmes, and John's forehead puckered slightly. _Pardon?_

Then the door of 221 opened and John watched in growing confusion as Sherlock greeted an older lady with a fond smile and an embrace. No hard feelings apparently. He introduced them (Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson) with a gesture. _Now you have manners, Sherlock?_ Sherlock bounded up the stairs ahead of John, turned to watch his halting progress and with the pleased air of a stage magician doing a reveal threw open the door with a flourish. He backed out of the opening, removing his gloves but never taking his eyes from John's face.

 _What are you looking for?_ thought John. _Looking for another way in, so you can peel another layer?_

John stepped in. He paused, gaze sweeping the room. Boxes everywhere, stacked messily. In spite of the disorder, the room was welcoming and cosy. John raised his brows. "Well, this could be very nice."

Sherlock's face relaxed slightly, voice warm and almost... relieved? "Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." Their voices overlapped in the next moment. "So I went straight ahead and moved in -"

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out - Oh." John's comment died as he saw Sherlock's face. _Oh, it's his... rubbish._ Sherlock swivelled, flustered, sweeping up some files and tossing them at a box. _This - this whole thing - it's very important to him. Trying to make a good impression - now? Yesterday he acted as though he could hardly be bothered, today he's a blushing schoolgirl. What the hell, Hugh?_

Mrs. Hudson looked upon them both with an indulgent eye. Her coy question to John snagged his attention. _If... IF we need two bedrooms?_ Her tone implied that John needn't be embarrassed, she understood the situation perfectly. John looked at his potential flatmate accusingly. What the hell had he been telling people? Had he really -? No. If Sherlock had been hinting that they were a couple, that was so not on.

 _We had phone sex! That does not mean we are in a relationship. Particularly when you insist on playing out this farce of not knowing who I am to my face!_

John threw the Union Jack cushion onto the battered red armchair, thumped it to relieve his feelings a little and dropped down.

"I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock turned at that. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the picture of nonchalance. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. The Science of Deduction?"

"What did you think?" Sherlock's face was expectant.

John gave him the look - the indulgent one that used to cause recalcitrant patients to reconsider whether they were actually fit to leave hospital. _Please._ Sherlock's face fell. John lobbed his first salvo. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes. And I could read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits and your mobile phone." Sherlock's voice is cool, utterly certain. John continued to hold his gaze. _Good. He took the bait. Couldn't resist being clever._

"How?"

 _Go on, then. Tell me how you really found out about my military career... And while you are at it, explain about the drinking thing. Oh, and do tell me more about my 'brother?'_

He held the tall man's gaze. Sherlock broke eye contact first and turned to look out the window. John gritted his teeth. Bloody hell. Would it take thumbscrews to make the man confess? Mrs. Hudson re-entered with a newspaper and a question for Sherlock and ungraciously John wished her to the devil. _Some privacy for 'the happy couple', if you wouldn't mind?_ But Sherlock's attention was caught by something outside the window, tension growing in his shoulders.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. A man in a long coat burst in and stopped just inside the door. Suddenly John felt as though there were no one in the room except Sherlock and the grey-haired man with tired eyes. Sherlock's eyes were electric with interest during an urgent conversation that made absolutely no sense. _Lauriston Gardens? Forensics? An assistant - wait, he didn't mean John, did he? Sherlock had said once that he needed one. Needed John._

For the work.

Police work. Bodies. _Murder._ John's heart beat quickened.

"Will you come?" asked the man.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," said Sherlock as though granting a great concession.

The man bowed in an ironic way, nodded to Mrs, Hudson and left. Sherlock turned away, then a grin spread wide over his thin face and he jumped - actually jumped! in excitement.

"Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note, oh! It's Christmas." In a whirl of energy Sherlock grabbed at his long coat and scarf, tossing out instructions to the tolerant Mrs. Hudson, suggestions for John and then he was gone. The sudden silence hung thick, and the landlady looked at John with understanding and a trace of pity. John jabbed at the floor with his cane, mouth grim.

Damn. _Damn._ Not only had Sherlock been able to dodge the issue of their past relationship again, he'd scarpered off. To consult, or whatever. Off doing interesting things, leaving John in this rubbish tip of a flat with his stupid leg playing up. Of course. Nothing ever happened to _John_ except what he made happen these days. Stupid to feel left out.

"You're a doctor," said a deep voice. John looked up to see Sherlock at the door. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

 _He's back._ John levered himself up and faced Sherlock squarely. _Well. You have something to say, Sherlock Holmes?_

 

\------

 

 _Brilliant!_ Sherlock's mind was already revolving with speculation - a note! Wonderful. He shouted his farewells and ran lightly down the steps and out the door, arm already up to hail a taxi.

A note, and finally Lestrade had made the smart choice and called him in. Oh, it was going to be such fun, being there to observe in situ, collating facts and evidence. Too bad about Anderson, but Sherlock could still get on quite well in spite of the man's antagonism. A taxi began to slow and suddenly Sherlock remembered.

Oh. _John._

He turned back. _Idiot!_ He berated himself. _How could you forget?_ The smallest hint of a fascinating case and all other thoughts flew from his head. John - he wanted John along, to show him Sherlock's life, his work. To give him excitement. True, Sherlock didn't actually need a medical opinion, he would have the coroner's report later, but he wanted John. Wanted to include him. Wanted John to have an interest. In the work, that is.

He opened the door quietly. John was looking at the paper. Perfect. Sherlock spoke. "You're an doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor," and John surged to his feet.

"Any good?" John's answer was a confident affirmative. He was still watching Sherlock carefully and so Sherlock strolled closer. His deliberate observations about John's past did not provoke John at all. In fact, there seemed to be an underlying strain in his replies, a waiting tension. And he still hadn't moved his eyes from Sherlock's face. _John. Won't you say something, do something?_ There was no time for this. There was a case awaiting him. Awaiting _them._

John waited.

"A bit of trouble, too, I'll bet," stated Sherlock. _You know, but you've no real idea,_ thought John. The urge to throttle Sherlock was strong upon him - as was unhealthy curiosity. He wanted to _know,_ in spite of his better judgement. About the man, about the case Sherlock had been called in to consult upon. Excitement and adrenaline - his weakness. Sherlock loomed over him and John carefully kept his face bland and stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated. Sherlock's grey-eyed gaze roved over his face, measuring.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, god, yes." It slipped out before John could stop himself. Damn! But it was true. He did want to see. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was in the front hall of Baker Street, waiting while Sherlock gleefully kissed Mrs. Hudson at the fresh prospect of a puzzle. The man was practically incandescent with anticipation.

 _Gorgeous,_ said a traitorous little voice in John's head. _Never mind that,_ he told himself firmly. _We have issues to work out, he and I._ Though he'd hoped to have got further along by now.

 _Ah, well,_ John consoled himself. _There's still time yet to force him into admitting he knows me. If he doesn't... Well. I can wait a long, long time. Game on, indeed._

And John's lips curved up as he ducked into the taxi.

Sherlock gave the address to the driver, who nodded his capped head and pulled away from the kerb. Sherlock pulled out his Blackberry and began texting, searching, the glow of the tiny screen brightening as dusk fell over the city. John waited. _Damned if I'm going to speak first._

And he waited. Finally he glanced at Sherlock and away again. He sighed silently. _Either he's as stubborn as I am, or just oblivious._ Sherlock caught the movement, flicked a glance at him and then put his mobile away.

"Okay you've got questions."

 _Too right I do,_ thought John. "Yeah, where are we going?"

Sherlock gave him a look. _Don't be thick, John, I know you're not._ "Crime scene. Next."

John's jaw muscles flexed. _Fine. Have it your way._ "Who are you? What do you do?" Sherlock tossed the question right back to him, and John decided to play. _Well. I know you consult. But let's just continue to play stupid then, shall we?_ "The police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock grinned. John wanted to know more about his work? Excellent. He wanted to impress him. "I'm a consulting detective."

John shot back immediately. "What does that mean?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth which is always, they consult me." He looked out the window. _I told you about my work once before. Go on, bring it up, John. You know me!_

John looked at Sherlock with disbelief. Arrogant didn't really adequately describe the man. He decided to poke at that self-confidence. "The police don't consult amateurs," he said with a smile.

That stung. Sherlock turned to look at him, mouth tight. _You know they DO consult me, John. Why would you say that?_ Then his lips twitched up. Ah. A challenge. _You want to see my skills? Fine._ Time for some quick thinking. Again - hint. Let him make the first move.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday I said Afghanistan or Iraq - you looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know." John would dearly love to hear this confession. But as Sherlock began his litany, giving the observational hints that told him how he knew John was a military man (haircut, tan, limp), John realized Sherlock was more wily than he had ever expected. It was all so plausible! But John knew, he _knew_ that Sherlock had had his information about John's life from their previous association. This? This was just corroboration of facts Sherlock already knew. He looked away to conceal his disgruntled expression. _Right. Second round._

"You said I had a therapist." _I told you that I went to clinics. On Wednesdays._

Sherlock's reply was immediate and scornful. "With a psychosomatic limp of course you've got a therapist."

John winced internally. _Oh, well done. You play the game well._ He fell silent.

Sherlock looked straight ahead. No reaction from John again. _Well. Perhaps I cheated there. I knew that beforehand. Fresh start, Sherlock. Show him something new - really impress him._ He turned back to John, who had a crease between his brows. "Then there's your brother." _I overheard you talking to Harry at the café. I know you were looking for a flat share, that Harry gave you the phone. But the phone itself...  
_  
John raised a sceptical brow. _Yes. My brother. Do tell._

Sherlock plunged on. "Your phone - it's expensive..." He enumerated all the small details he'd observed, weaving them in with his previous knowledge of John's life deftly. He threw in a compliment as well - "The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. Next bit's easy, you know it already." _You're intelligent, John, don't disappoint me._

"The engraving." John had an odd sensation creeping over him.

Sherlock restrained a triumphant smile. _I knew you'd keep up._ "Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone."

John was now turned to Sherlock and watching him closely, open-mouthed as he probably had never been in his life. _Okay. So I don't have a brother._ I have a sister with a taste for boy's toys but this... Wait. I'm a war hero? Yes, of course the phone says Clara, but how could you possibly know about Harry's leaving her? How did you know we don't get on? _Wait. Wait - the drinking?_

At this John turned his face forward to hide his expression. He was severely discomfited. He'd expected to trip Sherlock up, not to have his life sliced open and laid bare. _Again, damn it._ Sherlock's eyes were upon him and John had to ask. "How. Can. You. _Possibly_ know about the drinking."

Sherlock felt a stab of satisfaction in spite of John's surly tone. "Shot in the dark, good one though." He held up the phone, pointed to various marks and scuffs, explaining their origin. "You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There - you see, you were right."

"I was right -! Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock spoke with finality.

John was quiet a moment, digesting what he'd just heard. Granted, the details about John's career and limp - Sherlock had known about those. But the phone, and Clara, and the drinking - well. Astonishing. He hated how neatly the tables had been turned, hated being deduced yet again - but still. What he still didn't get was why Sherlock was describing John based only upon the physical details he'd observed, and not bringing up their previous relationship _at all._ Still - Sherlock was right. He was no amateur, and deserved to hear it.

 _It was… amazing._ John told him so, a bit grudgingly. Sherlock looked at him with surprise, and John was reminded of how oddly Sherlock had responded to compliments during their phone conversations. As if he rarely received them. God. No wonder Sherlock was crap with people. Did no one ever show him how to act? Was no one ever nice to the man?

"That's not what people normally say." It slipped out before Sherlock could stop himself. He was at a loss. He hadn't expected this - anger, yes. Not... admiration. He felt a tendril of warmth. _John never reacts the way I expect. How.. refreshing._

"What do people normally say?" John felt the conversation coming round. _We've said this before. You said they called you 'freak.'_

"Piss off." Sherlock smiled, a real smile in rueful acknowledgement of his shortcomings. John had to turn away to hide his involuntary grin.

Close, but not quite it. God, he can disarm me with just a smile. _Get a grip, John. Let's give it one more go - a little joke. See if I can't trick him into exposure. Don't forget - Sherlock thinks you are intelligent - use it. Let's try it on._

John kept looking out the window. "Patellar tendinitis."

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock twisted to look at John.

"Patellar tendinitis. You said my leg was psychosomatic, that I limped badly when I walked but that I didn't seem to notice it when I stood still. But that's often the case with my problem." John firmed the corners of his mouth, kept his gaze on the window. "Sports injury. Rugby, doing line-out jumps."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John again, re-evaluating. "That's not the problem with your leg."

"No?"

"No. You're fit, but not to put too fine a point on it - weekend warrior sports aren't your area, overlooking your age."

"Thanks for that!"

"Granted, your tan could be from sports, but everything still points to my original deduction being correct. For such an injury, one doesn't use a walking stick, a stabilising strap is used, along with rest. You walked to Bart's with Mike, you walked to Baker Street - hardly restful. Such an injury doesn't explain your military bearing, your haircut, nor the fact that your hands are in excellent condition - strong but not overly muscular, with no thickness from the inevitable breaks and fractures you get during such a sport. Tendinitis is a repetitive injury, but one that's unlikely to occur with playing a sport infrequently, and you don't play. You haven't played in years - probably since your university years."

John waited a beat, then slid a look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock was still looking at him. The corner of John's mouth twitched and he bit it. Sherlock's eyes widened.

"You... were having me on, weren't you." _John! You actually challenged me on my own terms- no one does that!_ Sherlock felt absurdly pleased.

"Yes, yes I am." John couldn't contain the grin, echoed by Sherlock's. "Couldn't resist."

"Ah. Too much?"

"A bit. You still haven't told me about yourself, you know." _Will you ever let me in? Say you're sorry for being an utter arse to me?_

"I hope to show you instead. You'll enjoy this, I think. You'll be of some assistance."

"Doing what?"

"Ah, here we are." The cab had slowed. Ahead was a street filled with police lights flashing off old brickwork. Sherlock thrust some money at the cabby and jumped out.

John shook his head, huffed an annoyed breath. _Well done, Sherlock, dodged it again. You know a lot, don't you? But not quite everything._ He hoisted himself from the taxi and slammed the door. Together they began to walk to the barrier of tape, Sherlock checking his pace slightly to keep John at his side, John stretching his stride a bit to keep up.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock hoped not – he wanted John to be genuinely astonished at his skills.

John told Sherlock what he wanted to hear - that he was right. About Clara, about the divorce, about the drinking. Sherlock' brows lifted in surprise, then he stopped stock still as John laid out his last card.

"Harry's your sister. _Sister!"_ Sherlock fumed. _Idiot!_ But really, from available evidence the answer had seemed obvious. What kind of sister asks her brother about his sexual exploits? Gives away pricey electronics? John's sister, apparently. John's divorced, lesbian, drunk sister. _Really, is there nothing in your life that isn't extraordinary, John?_

John suppressed a smile at Sherlock's irritated hiss. _Always something, yes. Never assume. You don't know me that well, Sherlock, no matter how many layers you peel_.

 

\-----

 

The brief tenuous accord John shared with Sherlock lasted only until Sherlock's parting shot to a man called Anderson and Sergeant Sally Donovan a few minutes later. All over again John was reminded of Sherlock's behaviour in the lab yesterday with Molly and himself.

"Hello, Freak." Sally's tone was unwelcoming.

They obviously had some kind of history. Sherlock introduced Sally as an old friend, but John couldn't quite make out whether he was being sarcastic or not. She scarcely cast John a glance, instead concentrating her venom upon Sherlock. John watched this by-play with a furrowed brow.

"Would it be better if I just waited?" _I don't even know what I am doing here. What possessed me? Oh, right. My damned curiosity. And a craving for some excitement._

Sherlock gave a firm negation, lifting the barrier for John to pass under. _No, John, absolutely not. I want you here. This is the perfect opportunity to show you my world - you'll fit right in._ He hadn't felt this much anticipation for a crime in a long while, and having John along made him even keener. When Anderson moved to cut him off, he gritted his teeth. _Not now!_ His impatience loosened his tongue. He savoured the expression on the outmatched Anderson's face and swept past the stunned man into the decrepit Edwardian house.

John was appalled. He didn't really care what Sherlock had against this Anderson and Donovan, but for God's sake! He glanced at Donovan's frozen expression and followed Sherlock within, agitated. _Sherlock, you can't just do that to people. I don't care what the provocation is._

Within, Sherlock directed John to put on a crime scene coverall. When Lestrade gave Johna dubious look, Sherlock growled at him. "I said, he's with me." _Don't spoil things - I want him._

John tugged on the blue garment. _Don't I even warrant an introduction? Christ._ Not that Lestrade remembered him from earlier - apparently whenever Sherlock was about, he held everyone's attention exclusively. He followed the detective inspector and the rude man up the stairs. It would be the top floor, of course. His leg ached and he cursed under his breath. To relieve his annoyance, he spoke up.

"Sergeant Donovan, out there."

"Yes, what about her?" Sherlock answered absently. His mind was already racing ahead to the mystery awaiting.

"You said she's an old friend of yours?"

"Yes." Sherlock didn't notice the odd quality in John's voice, though Lestrade looked back at the smaller man as he struggled up the stairs.

"Oh." John voice was pleasant. "I would never have guessed it." _Because an 'old friend' wouldn't talk about her like that in front of her male colleagues that way. Are you totally oblivious to niceties?_

At that Sherlock looked sharply at him. John's face was bland, mildly curious. "We've known each other for years," he offered. Was John just making small talk? He was fond of doing that. _Never mind her, John, I've something better for you._

John stood with Lestrade at the door, watching as Sherlock flitted about the unfortunate woman's body. The man was being unbelievably rude, again. Telling the Inspector to shut up, rubbing his nose in Lestrade's inability to unwind the case, slamming the door on Anderson. Who was he trying to impress? _Not making things better, Sherlock._

"Doctor Watson. What do you think?" _Lestrade, take note. I have an assistant now. DOCTOR Watson. I want him to feel part of this. He needs it._

John looked at him. _Me?_ Sherlock's tone was respectful. Lestrade made a helpless gesture and left them to it. John joined Sherlock over the body. _What am I doing here in a police investigation? Sherlock doesn't need me. The man's mad._ "I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Well, this is more fun." Sherlock looked eagerly at John, who nearly smiled. _Ah. Saw that John. Your severe tone hasn't fooled me. You are enjoying this. Knew you would. You see, you are perfect for this life._ He watched as John performed an examination and gave his opinion. Obvious, but it helped start a train of thought. Sherlock leapt up and began to inform Lestrade of his findings.

John struggled to his feet without help. Sherlock was pacing about, talking in short bursts. When Lestrade lifted a disbelieving brow, he knelt and began elucidate, pointing at the jewellery and hands. That odd feeling was creeping over John again.

Good god. How did the man do it? All that data, just from observation. "That's brilliant." Sherlock looked at him, a question in his eyes.

The compliment caught Sherlock off-guard. _Brilliant? You think so - and you said it out loud?_ But he was on a roll, and John was here, watching him, and it was all so _interesting,_ even though he hated slowing down enough to explain things that were quite simple.

"It's fantastic!" John spoke admiringly again.

Right. Sherlock had to know. "You know you do that out loud?" he asked John quietly. John grimaced in apology. _No. No, don't stop. You speaking – helps me think._ "No... it's fine."

Lestrade interrupted with a question and he whirled back to the problem. _What - of course there was a suitcase!_ There had to be -!

John and Lestrade both followed as Sherlock ran out the door and half-way down the stairs, bellowing up at them. He paused and John watched the revelation cross the tall man's face. His face was vivid as the pieces clicked into place. John's mouth was dry. _Look at that mad bastard. I don't know half of what's going on in his head, he's childish and unpleasant most of the time but my god. He is something else._

Too bad I want to throttle him at regular intervals.

His opinion was only reinforced when he managed to make his painful way back downstairs. Outside he looked about, but Sherlock was gone. _Oh, thank you. Thank you very much._ You bring me to this crime scene, you want my opinion, and then you piss off. Not brilliant, that.

The half-scornful look from Sergeant Donovan didn't help. She lifted the barrier for him. He passed under and she asked, "You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

 _No surprise he has no friends,_ thought John with a strange combination of bitterness and pity – for himself or for Sherlock? _But at least people remember him._ 'I'm... I'm nobody."

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." With that valedictory shot Sergeant Donovan strode back to join Lestrade in the house.

 _Fine advice._ John gritted his teeth, glanced at a phone booth where the phone was ringing and moved off to the main road.

 _Left behind again. So much for excitement._ For the first time, John began to question Sherlock's continued silence on the topic of their former association. Oh, not whether he knew John - he did, that much was obvious from their first face-to-face conversation. But why? Was it still some experiment? That peculiar social awkwardness Sherlock had? Or some other reason for his continuing failure to bring up their association? The way he ran hot then cold, the way the man looked at John sometimes. With such _expectation._ What did Sherlock _want_ from him?

Well. He could go to his bedsit. Think about whether he needed the particular brand of excitement and irritation that being a flatmate with Sherlock would entail. John lifted his arm, but the taxi passed by. Typical. Would he never get a ride? He began to walk again, walking stick clicking on cold pavement.

In another phone booth, the telephone rang as he approached. Odd. He paused, then opened the door and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, have hit the end of the LJ updates, and have been a bit stuck. Until I can buckle down and finish out the SiP plot bits, I can't update again here.
> 
> Please do drop me a line - howl, whine that you want to see John thinking, "Well, Mr. Big Man, aren't you the cat's pyjamas..." and sundry caustic thoughts during the Mycroft encounter, much less how he continues to not-strangle Sherlock for being infuriating. And of course - the restaurant scene.
> 
> Credit - Selected excerpts from the BBC site, the Blog of Dr John Watson were used - not my property and I only wish the BBC would hire me to write John's blog.
> 
> Anyway, happy seasonal festivity of your choice and enjoyment!


	34. Socialis Moribus Accommodata, or Appropriate Social Behaviour

John's jaw was tight as he limped towards the mysterious man leaning in a nonchalant pose upon an umbrella. His shuffling step echoed in the dim warehouse. Oh, the circumstances and setting were ominous enough. Outright coercing John into this meeting had the potential to instil a certain amount of dread. But John was a doctor and a soldier - this ludicrous drama lacked the bright lethal edge of being under fire. So far John's damnable need to poke his nose into things had kept him from lashing out. Instead he restrained himself - admirably, he thought, to dry sarcasm.

"You know, I've got a phone... You could just phone me. On my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet." The man's accent was diamond sharp, the suit beautifully cut, the smile intolerable as he solicitously invited John to sit. Such a good host.

 _Oh, wonderful. Sherlock Holmes. I might have known. The man is an anomaly. Bends the rules of normality around him like a damned black hole,_ thought John. He brusquely refused the chair. The man eyed him down his long nose.

"You don't seem very afraid," he said, and John riposted immediately. What, John was supposed to be afraid of some posh git trying to intimidate him? It would take a lot more than this to trouble an ex-Army doctor.

"You don't seem very frightening." At the reply the man laughed as if John had said something truly funny. John mentally shrugged. Well, if some people wanted to assume John was stupid instead of brave, he couldn't be arsed to care. Better than being a coward hiding from life in his bedsit.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John did his best to keep his expression open. _Oh, he once called me for an experiment and I talked him through a wank. Why do you want to know?_ He bit back an inappropriate grin and tried to answer.

"I don't have one. I... barely know him. I met him... yesterday." He winced internally. He'd very nearly stuttered - it sounded false. _Keep it together. Don't snicker._ He had to keep his guard up. The man had outright kidnapped him, after all.

The man's eyes never left his face as he asked in a tone that was much less arch than the question posed, "Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John blinked. Oh, _god,_ not _another_ one. First Mrs. Hudson, now this? Had Sherlock put this man up to this charade? Was this another mad experiment Sherlock was putting him through? "Who are you?" he queried, not really expecting a straight answer. Good thing too, as the question was ignored.

The conversation continued in a fashion that John was beginning to think was scripted by Saltzman and Broccoli. In one part of his mind he idly wondered which Bond villain was most similar to the man in front of him. _Blofeld... or Goldfinger?_

"He does love to be dramatic," murmured the man. John just managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. _Goldfinger - definitely._ It was all too over the top to be anyone else. John locked eyes with him.

"Well, thank god you're above all that." At the dry reply the man cocked his head, brows drawing together. The chime from John's phone was a welcome distraction. He pulled it out and glanced at it.

 **Baker Street.  
Come at once  
if convenient.  
SH**

John almost smiled, teeth clenched and aching. _Lovely. And_ now _Sherlock remembers my existence._ Watching, John's kidnapper waspishly enquired if he was distracting John. _Only in the sense that you are getting on my nerves,_ thought John. _Are we going anywhere with this?_

The stranger ground his umbrella into the concrete. "Do you plan to continue you association with Sherlock Holmes?"

John gusted a breath of annoyance. "Ah, I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be," said the man, looking intently at him.

John kept his eyes on the other's face, unblinking and direct. "It really couldn't," he said in a low voice. The stranger ignored the warning tone and the badly improvised villain script rolled on. Bribes. Information money.

Oh, for fuck's sake. There was no possible way this man was sent by Sherlock, thought John. Sherlock would never send someone with such a poor understanding of John, using the world's poorest attempt at reverse psychology to push him towards Sherlock. Who was this man? It was like some bizarre test, only he couldn't tell if he was passing or failing. In terms of intimidation, John had seen much better in the Army.

"I worry about him. Constantly." The man's mock concern was grating.

"That's nice of you," said John and he almost meant it. A second message interrupted the bizarre discourse.

 **If inconvenient,  
come anyway.  
SH**

 _Yes, it bloody well is inconvenient - I can't pry myself away from Amateur Hour here and I have no idea where I am,_ thought John. Without looking away from his phone John refused the invitation for compensated snooping with the only syllable it deserved. "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," protested the man.

"Don't bother."

The man laughed disbelievingly. "You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No. I'm not, I'm just not interested." _Are we done with this pantomime yet?_

The man's expression chilled and pulled out a small notebook with the air of one who has the weapon to end the arms race. John felt the shift in the atmosphere.

"Trust issues, it says here," said the man with mild interest.

 _Boom._ John felt the verbal shot strike home in his his diaphragm. Ella's notes. Confidential files. The world suddenly sharpened up, colourful and cutting-clear as his heart rate kicked up.

"Could it be that you decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" mocked his kidnapper.

"Who says I trust him?" returned John. _I don't, I don't trust him but my god if I had to choose right now...no, stop that. You're being played, John._ He interrupted the man's complacent tones brutally. "Are we done?"

"You tell me," drawled the man. John tilted his head and considered him. His mouth quirked.

 _Physical restraint unlikely / wouldn't dirty his hands anyway / what's HIS connection to Sherlock / my god-damned therapist's notes! / How? / threat / yes but not violent / this game ends here / go / go NOW_

He turned and began limping back to the car.

"People have warned you to stay away from him...but I can see by your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stopped. Hooked again - he could feel the tug - danger, need to know. Damn it. He shook his head angrily and pivoted to face the smirking face.

"Show me," the man ordered, leaning on his umbrella. John eyed him. _Oh, yes, sir, right away. I was Army. Doesn't mean I'm a dog._ He might be losing ground in this contest, but that didn't mean he couldn't play the dominance game. He stood still and lifted his hand, forcing the other to come to him. His nerve broke when the tall man reached for his hand, pulling it back. The man only tilted his head. With exaggerated care he cradled John's wrist and touched his hand before releasing it.

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

The man dodged the question. Obviously he wanted to impart something to John. Could he be more elliptical, though? Shops, cars, Sherlock, battlefields. John's heart was stilling thumping hard.

"What's wrong with my hand?"

John's thoughts were tumultuous as the man leaned close, explaining. _Yes, a tremor, thank you. I know_ _it stops when I've had an 'encounter.' I hate that you know about my therapy, that is so fucking wrong and dangerous._

"Who the hell are you!"

 _I loathe that my hand ISN'T shaking now. Makes you more important than I'd wanted to think. You utter bastard._ His pulse beat a frantic tattoo in his vision.

"Welcome back," whispered his kidnapper with terrible intimacy before walking off, twirling his umbrella. John swallowed hard. He hadn't felt this conflicted since... that fucking day. Since his last call with Hugh.

 _Fight or flight, fight or..._

His phone chimed.

Sherlock, texting him again. _Speak of the devil I know._ Like or not, the umbrella man was right. John missed it - the battlefield, the colours, the affirmation of life. How handy, how terribly convenient it was that Sherlock was in his life now. John blinked. If that was reverse psychology, well - his kidnapper was very good. Very good. Much better than any Bond villain he'd ever seen. But if John was going into danger, he'd do it knowingly, head up and eyes open.

Time to chose a side. _Whatever that meant._ John limped towards Anthea. "Baker street, 221b Baker street. But I need to stop off somewhere first." If this was his new battlefield, he'd feel a little better having his old friend the Sig with him.

After all, Sherlock seemed to have a lot of odd acquaintances. _It could be dangerous._

 

 _\-----  
_

 _  
_

"Most edifying. I begin to understand what you see in him."

"...You let him go. Let him go now, or I'll -"

"Oh, please. Why do you persist in casting me as the villain with your idle and useless threats?"

"Because I know your methods? Because you like to play puppeteer from the shadows? Would you care to test how idle my threats can be?"

"No need. I won't stand in the way of your... relationship with Doctor Watson. You do worry about him, don't you? All those texts. They quite interrupted our discourse. "

...

"Really, I feel I have helped your cause. He's on his way to you now. Unharmed."

"That remains to be seen. What ideas did you plant in his head?"

"Nothing he hasn't heard already, I assure you. Tell me, how did he take it?"

"Take what?"

"Surely he must have realised who you are, from your... previous association. Your voice is distinctive. His response must have been dramatic."

"Is this your business? Don't you have some dictatorships to topple?"

"He said nothing, then. Surely you have told him."

"No."

"Interesting. The doctor plays a deep game."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing. I knew your interest in him was good for you - I just had no idea he would be so beneficial overall."

"Oh, _please."_

"But what interests me more, is that you - you who delight in exposition, in truth and honesty, you who has spent so much time and resources tracking the man down - you have not tried to cement your connection to the doctor further. Surely you understand that the longer you wait to explain yourself, the more difficult it becomes?"

"I can't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can't. I... promised. I have done all that you said, yes, but - I swore that in the end it would be his choice. I manipulated him before, and see how well my judgement served me there."

"I see."

"Do you? Have you really seen him, you with your eyes all over London? His behaviour, the danger he invites? And he quit his job. He's at a loose end, he's on the verge of leaving London..."

"I think you are inferring too much. Your influence -"

"No, my _effect._ The consequences of my actions. I won't... If we are to forge a connection, it will be of his own free will. If he brings it up, I will be pleased to explain as best I can."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I can give him a new start. I won't burden him with what has passed before. If I could delete the whole incident from the world, I would."

"Sherlock...while I appreciate your motive, I am not sure that's -"

"Don't. Spare me your maundering. And stay away from him."

"Sherlock. Be sure that this course of action is what you truly want. If you require my assistance -"

" _No._ You are not to interfere. You can watch, but you are not to speak to him again unless I give you leave. I don't want you pulling any more strings."

"My. So possessive. And he's so unprepossessing outwardly. I hadn't thought such a man would engender such a depth of emotion in you."

"Don't be ridiculous. John is going to be my flatmate. _Leave him alone."_

"As you wish, brother."

 

 

Sherlock closed the connection with a vicious stab and dropped the phone on the desk. He paced back and forth in agitation. He did not need this, not right now! His toe caught the pink suitcase's corner and he stumbled. With a silent snarl he thumped it on the kitchen chair and continued moving through the flat. If he'd known John was going to be picked up by Mycroft he would never have left him in Brixton! In hindsight it had been a grave error.

But the case! Sherlock knew Jennifer Wilson's case was pink - the woman coordinated her polish to her outfit! He knew the killer must have dumped the hideous thing nearby and that legwork was needed to recover it. But John was still using that useless walking stick and had trouble even getting up the short flight of stairs at 221B. Sherlock knew that he'd never keep up. So Sherlock had left, assuming that John would text him or at least be waiting back here.

Well. You know what they say about assumptions. _Idiot,_ he mocked himself. He needed to sharpen his wits. They were entirely lacking. He rooted in a box, throwing some papers on the floor.

And now Sherlock had a threefold problem to ponder - how to push John into realising he no longer needed his walking stick, ensuring that he would be able to keep up with Sherlock. How to counteract anything his brother might have said - no, scratch that. How to make sure John put the entire encounter out of his head. That would be best.

Oh, and how to find the murderer. Of course.

He definitely needed three patches for this.

 

 

The problems twined and swirled like smoke through his thoughts. So focussed was he that he scarcely stirred when John finally came. Ah. Finally. Thirty minutes later than he'd anticipated - he'd already called Angelo's to hold a table for him for a stake-out.

 _/ murderer / walking stick / sibling problem / the issue is the phone / limit contact with brother /_ _psychosomatic limp / phone not on the body / must lose the walking stick /_

"Well?" The familiar voice was impatient.

 _/ call the phone / good, John's here / text the killer / -what? /_

"Oh! Yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?" John's reply sounded irked, but Sherlock was otherwise occupied.

/ _murderer had the case / definitely male / of course he ditched it / that's clever / have to tell John /_

John slapped the phone into Sherlock's uplifted hand and he immediately folded it between both hands. _Still warm from his pocket - no - focus, Sherlock._ Absently he explained about finding the suitcase while his mind turned over the problem of John's leg.

 _/ needs a reason to run / no do not involve reason / go beyond conscious thought / what if it doesn't work / surely John will become irate-unhappy-depressed / no must take the risk / need him_

Sherlock found himself muttering, "...it's no use, there's no other way, we'll have to risk it..." His plan came together with ease. Test the theory of the murderer having the phone and cure John's limp at the same time.

John grimaced. Here he was - in the depths of a severe adrenaline crash. Post-kidnapping, dragged across London, armed to the teeth (for a civilian), ready for action and he was asked to do what?

Send a text.

He snatched the phone from Sherlock's negligent hand and went to the window. _With luck, my kidnapper's car hasn't left yet. I can get a ride back to my bedsit..._

The angry movement snagged Sherlock's attention. "What's wrong?"

 _You are, you wanker._ "Just met a friend of yours." Sherlock's near-horrified surprise at the word, 'friend' didn't even shock him any more. _You really do have none, do you._ "An enemy."

"Oh." Sherlock pondered. A dark suspicion niggled at him and he had to ask. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

 _But you'd never accept it, John. I know you._ Sherlock felt a warmth in his chest when his supposition was confirmed and he made a joke about taking it to benefit them both. _Serve Mycroft right if he did._

"Who is he?" John asked.

 _Uh oh._ Time to distract - John must not concern himself with Mycroft and his machinations. Quick - have him send the text! "Not my problem right now. On my desk - the number!" Push him, make him forget the encounter. "Have you done it?"

John tapped as quickly as he could, fuming. "Yeah, hang on!" he snapped at Sherlock. Bloody _arse._ He was three seconds away from his recurring fantasy of wrapping his hands around Sherlock's bare neck. Tongue between teeth he pushed keys as Sherlock dictated.

 **[What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out...]** John looked up in sudden concern. "You blacked out?"

"What? No!" Impatient, Sherlock jumped up and grabbed the case, carrying it into the living area. "Hurry up!" He unzipped and opened the case with a flourish.

 _Right, John. Pay attention, follow along - I know you'll like this. Can you keep up? I've been wanting to show you my life for so long._ But John was staring at the case with something like concealed horror. Sherlock rolled his eyes but he felt chilled. _Et tu, John? Don't be like everyone else._

 __"Oh. Perhaps I should mention? I didn't kill her," he drawled, but his eyes never left John's face.

John saw the expression. _That really is what people think of you, isn't it. Christ._ A shaft of pity stabbed through his annoyance. No wonder Sherlock was so walled off. "Okay." He sat. __

_Tell me what it's about. Keep talking, Sherlock. I'll listen._

 _It's what I do._

Sherlock explicated with broad sweeping gestures - how the murderer wound up with the unwanted memento of his crime, how he got rid of it, Sherlock's cleverness in finding it - all down to the colour. "It had to be pink, obviously." John was listening, eyes intent - it was almost as good as John talking. The detective felt a curl of pleasure at having a receptive audience.

 _Amazing._ "Why didn't I think of that," John murmured half to himself, and was stung when Sherlock immediately replied.

"Because you're an idiot." Lost in the pleasure of showing his skills to John Sherlock's reply was unthinking. When John's eyes widened he back-pedalled. "No, no! Don't look like that." _Don't. I didn't mean it like that._ "Practically everyone is." _Will I never learn! John is right about social niceties. Distract._ "Look. Do you see what's missing?"

John glared. _Well, the idiot says: by virtue of it not being there, you bloody rude arse..._ " How could I?"

Sherlock released a silent breath in relief. _Good. It worked._ He began to lead John through the deductions concerning the whereabouts of Jennifer's phone.

John was equally alarmed and astonished. "Did I just text a murderer?" The phone rang and John picked it up.

 **[Number withheld.]**

Helpless, he looked at Sherlock. All right. He was out of his depth now with killers calling his mobile. Surely Sherlock should tell the police. "Why are you talking to me?"

Sherlock leapt up and began pulling on his coat. _Because you listen._ "Mrs. Hudson took my skull." _  
_

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull," asked John. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

 _You're much better than a skull, John._ Sherlock deflected with a joke and was rewarded with John's reluctant smile. "...Well?"

John was irritated again but couldn't quite hold back the half-smile. _Berk. You obviously want me to come with you, but you can't even ask, can you. Not directly._ John was becoming less and less surprised that Sherlock wouldn't bring up the phone sex thing. Not that John was going to - he still was going to push Sherlock to speak out first. But John still couldn't work out what Sherlock wanted with him - the detective was so brutally direct in all other areas.

 _Why can't you just say what's on your mind, Sherlock?_

Sherlock waited. John wasn't moving - why was he just sitting there? "Problem?" Sherlock asked. At John's mention of Donovan he tensed up. _Don't take her side, John. Just for once, I'd like..._ " What about her?"

John looked up at Sherlock. _Can you be honest? You handsome bastard. If only you would let me past the barriers._ "She said you get off on this."

Sherlock paused a long moment. Well. He did, intellectually. But he knew such an answer would not gain him any ground with John. _I know what you need, John._ "And I said dangerous, and here you are." Hook planted, he turned with a sweep of his coat, anticipating the sound of that limping (irritating non-disability!) step behind him.

John took that in. "Damn it!"

 _Idiot, idiot - why did you ever think he would say something meaningful about himself? He never does!  
_

It didn't help that Sherlock was right about him.

Half-fury, half-disappointment and all annoyance - he followed.

 _Skull. Channel the skull._ John walked beside Sherlock, walking stick clicking as they made their way to Northumberland street. Sherlock seemed to require a presence and the occasional question to spur his intellect. Fine. Bone-head John would play. For a time. He brooded, one ear listening to Sherlock as the man talked.

Lord, the man needed help. Beyond appreciation and applause, that is. John sniffed at the irony. _It's not only the murderer that needs an audience, Sherlock._ John recalled their phone conversations, how he'd managed to change Sherlock's brusque ways into something more socially palatable. He could work on that. Show him how it's done.

Sherlock's mind was preoccupied. _John is managing to keep up - just. I hope the murderer shows up - it will be just what John needs. Damned walking stick._

"All his victims disappeared from busy streets but nobody saw them go." There was potential danger all around. Did John feel it, the excitement? "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?"

 _Doctors,_ thought John immediately. He glanced behind to hide the twitch of his lips.

"Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?"

 _Shoppers. Street people._ John opened his mouth. _No, wait. Skull. I'm an idiot. You arse._ He licked his lips. _Charity collectors. Pickpockets. Business men._

Sherlock continued without nary a pause, words tumbling out while his mind flew ahead to the stake-out. Would the murderer come? Of course he would come. "Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

 _Taxi drivers. Criminals. Policemen. Sherlock Holmes._ "Don't know. Who?"

"Haven't the faintest," replied the detective with a shrug and pulled open the door to a restaurant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Infamous restaurant scene next, which some of you die-hard J/S shippers know well - so ambiguous! And Sherlock ... Sherlock, why do you say what you do? (In terms of shipping, it is not a great scene. Still. Entertaining!)
> 
> Thanks for reading and waiting for an update so patiently.


	35. Angelo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo was grateful to Sherlock for a number of reasons, but he often wondered why the man was always alone.

Angelo looked up as the door opened. Ah, the detective! Good. He and the staff had been keeping a watch on 22 Northumberland Street as requested. There was nothing Angelo wouldn't do for Sherlock Holmes. A short stint as a Category D prisoner in an Open Prison with visits from his girlfriend and occasional bouts of community service was a far cry from the treatment he would have got as a man sent down for killing three people.

His brows rose to his hairline in pleasure as a man with neat blond hair and a kind face followed Sherlock in.

 _Finally! He brings someone to my restaurant. Must be serious about this one._ Angelo could hardly hold back the grin. He had been starting to think that Sherlock would never have anyone special in his life. The detective might be peculiar and abrupt but Angelo thought the world of him. He'd do his best to help his date go well. Personal service from the restaurant's owner should impress.

He gathered up two menus and barrelled forward.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned. Angelo grasped his hand and shook it. Sherlock's smile was strained - no doubt he was nervous. First date, then! Angelo beamed and offered them anything they liked. Nothing was too good for Sherlock and his young man.

Sherlock spoke over the end of Angelo's sentence, words rushed. "Do you want to eat?"

  
The other man said in a firm tone, "I'm not his date."

Angelo's mother was very Italian in her ways. Her son had inherited the useful talent of selective hearing when it was needed. Also, turning a blind eye. Sherlock's date was glaring but Angelo could see how matters really stood. Sherlock had brought this man here - the _first_ person he'd ever brought to Angelo's!

 _Not his date?_ Ha.

The blond man was obviously defensive about being 'out,' Angelo decided magnanimously. He shook hands with him. Strong grip - good. Angelo decided that he approved.

"This man got me off a murder charge!" Sherlock's companion's eyes flickered. Angelo pressed the point home. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison!" _You see how lucky you are? I hope you appreciate Sherlock._

Angelo went off to fetch a candle for atmosphere, ignoring the irate call behind him denying that it was a date. _Ah, young people these days._ Angelo may be older but he understood these things, no need to pretend! He returned with the candle, set it in front of Sherlock's companion who immediately buried his face behind the menu. With a thumbs-up and a wink for encouragement, he retreated.

He sighed in satisfaction when the smaller man ordered - the special, good choice. Sherlock didn't order. Mm, typical. Angelo observed the body language from afar, eyes narrowed. It could be going better - Sherlock was facing away, wasn't even glancing at his date. The other seemed uncomfortable, as though waiting for something. _Sherlock... all work and no play,_ thought the restaurant owner. _The boy needs to enjoy life more._

Angelo brought the serving out to the table himself, setting it down with ceremony and a murmured, "I hope you enjoy your meal." He moved away again and mentally crossed his fingers. The blond man spoke to Sherlock, a slight smile on his lips. Sherlock replied and the man seemed satisfied, turning his attention to his meal. Was the blond blushing? Could be. Angelo exhaled in relief.

But Sherlock's back stiffened. He faced his date, head bowed and whatever he said caused the other to shake his head in some earnest protest. Sherlock turned back to the window and his date grimaced, brow wrinkled. Angelo pursed his lips. _Sherlock..._ Why were the bright ones always so thick?

 _Well, well,_ thought Angelo as the pair left. _Someone needs to work on their communication._ The tension between the two was seething. He wondered what the rest of the night held for them. If only... He eyed the walking stick left behind and his teeth glinted behind his beard. Ah. Now he had an excuse to see how this unprecedented date went later.

And he would deny to the death any resemblance between his honest concern and interest in a friend's well-being and the gossipy ways of old Italian mammas.


	36. Perplexa Haec ab Hystrix, or The Porcupine's Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note - I apologise in advance for the excessive italics that I use to denote the characters' thoughts, I know it isn't always easy for some people to read. The first part and last part of this chapter are italic heavy. I found that with the update, AO3's italics were rather worse than before. Problem is, I started that style from the beginning, and so consistency must be maintained.

**Perplexa Haec ab Hystrix, or The Porcupine's Dilemma**  
  
 _Two porcupines in the cold sought to become close to one another in order to share warmth. However, when one approached the other, both cried out, "O! You hurt me!" as their sharp quills pierced and stabbed most cruelly. Good though their intentions were in seeking this reciprocal relationship, it could not occur for reasons they could not avoid._  


 

\-----

 

Sherlock sat but shifted around quickly when Angelo approached. He pasted on a smile.

_Angelo. He's going to assume... yes there he goes, should have known. No, John is not with me, he's... with me on case! Quick, interrupt before it gets worse, distract John from the word date... Damn it. Never mind. Watch for the murderer._

John looked up at the burly restaurant owner, brow furrowed.

 _...Jesus Christ. Not again. Not. His. Date. What is with Sherlock, why does everyone assume -? Must get Sherlock to bloody acknowledge this thing, this history between us. No, no - not a candle, I'm NOT HIS... Fuck. Fuck it. No, really. Thanks for the candle._ He snatched up the menu, irked.

Time passed. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the view beyond the plate glass window. John was eating but his eyes continually strayed to Sherlock.

 _So this is a stake-out and a 'date', mm? Not much cop for conversation, are you Sherlock? Time to push some buttons. You never did explain about Umbrella-man before._ John's lips twitched up.

Sherlock's pose was relaxed but his fingers beat a nervous tattoo. _Come on, come on. What if the murderer doesn't respond to the text? Need to find some other way to show John how little he needs the walking stick. I'm sure he can keep up with me if he would just... what? God, not asking about Mycroft again!_

John's smile was bland. _No arch-enemies indeed. And again, you didn't tell me who I met in that warehouse. This, Sherlock? This is not how 'real' people behave when asked repeatedly for a straight answer. Do you have any concept of how real people act? I don't think so._

John eyed his companion who still paying him no heed. Mm. He could do this. _Let me show you how people behave when they are on a 'date'. I think you are a handsome bastard. So - I smile. I ask about your relationships. I indicate availability. I flirt - and thank god for all that phone sex for making the delivery easy but Christ! my ears are burning._

Sherlock responded with his attention divided. One part of his mind was still spinning on possible scenarios to part John from his crutch. The other part was uneasy over the turn of the conversation, the provocative tone of John's voice, so reminiscent of older, less fraught exchanges between Hardwin and Hugo.

_He knows I don't have a boyfriend! Why does he persist in this pretence of not knowing me! What am I supposed to say - there was this amazing man once but I fucked up and now he... Is this what its about? Mycroft said he is playing a deep game. Is he trying to make me vulnerable in some way?_

Sherlock's brain jolted, all his attention switching to John at this. _He can't really want me, can he? Conclusion - unknown. It's not that straightforward._ His heart pounded painfully. _It's never that_ _easy. Put him off. If he persists... then the probability of sincere interest is higher. Better safe now than sorry later._

John was watching him with an inquiring gaze and Sherlock's chest tightened. Oh god. Sherlock ducked his head and delivered his excuse, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling below his breastbone. _It's true, work does come first with me, John. I told you so once and I want to be honest. And soon you'll be part of it. It will be perfect. You'll see how well you fit in my life._

John shook his head in disbelief as he listened. _Never mind. Jesus. I don't get it but it's fine. Is this dull for you, what real people do? Am I just one of those annoying people you told me about, throwing myself at you? And you once thought I was amazing. You really do think you are above it all, don't you. What the hell are you playing at? Everyone thinks we're a couple, must be your doing but you play hard to get?_

He jabbed a fork into his gnocchi. _This fucking game or test or whatever._

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed. Thank god they were leaving the topic. 

John eyed him _. Thank you? For what - not shaking the truth out of you, you skinny bastard? Trust issues. If you are for real, it's obvious yours are much worse than mine, Sherlock._

Interesting.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes on the street scene. Yes... yes! There, a cab. A face within was turned, looking at the building opposite. Oh, perfect. _John, I hope you are ready to forgo that useless prop. It's time._

Sherlock nodded at the window and John turned. A taxi? Ha, he'd been right. He squinted, reading the plate number. But Sherlock was watching the passenger, nose nearly against the glass. Before John could say anything, Sherlock snatched up his coat and was out the door. _Bugger. Is he really going after a serial killer on his own? Like hell._ John grabbed for his coat and threw it on with a quick pat to check that his gun was still secure at the small of his back.

Sherlock's near-collision with the car set John's heart pounding as he followed, apologies on his tongue. Christ. But Sherlock was muttering and then was off again, barging past pedestrians. John's breath caught as the rush came. His heart pounded and the colours bloomed bright in his vision, saturating the night scene. He followed. He ran. _He flew._

And when they had caught the cab and Sherlock had panted out his observations disproving the passenger was _(happily or unluckily?)_ a crazed murderer, John laughed. He couldn't help it, it was like a spring of relief and hilarity and _recognition_ that welled up and out. Sherlock looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

 _I haven't_ , thought John. _It's just that I've found a part of it I'd been missing._

He smiled at Sherlock and something in his half-unhinged grin brought an answering smile to the detective's face.

_Fuck it. Maybe it's not so important, whatever this gorgeous idiot is doing. All I know is that I haven't been bored, depressed or suicidal since I've met him in the flesh. The man's a war-zone._

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed in pleasure. _Knew you could keep up._ "Got your breath back?"

"Ready when you are," said John.

They ran and every step took John farther away from a bland bedsit, a limp, a drab existence towards something new. There was life. There was excitement. 

There was colour.

 

\-----

 

Upon reaching the front hall at Baker street they hung up their coats, panting and fell back against the wall.

Ridiculous. Ridiculous. John told Sherlock so. When the detective replied with, "And you invaded Afghanistan," John broke into helpless laughter for the second time that night. _You know I did, you great twit and we've just run away from a policeman and I shouldn't be giggling but it's just too..._

Absurd.

Sherlock grinned at the sound of John's merriment. He'd missed that, the sound of Hardwin's easy laughter. He couldn't help but join in, the low chuckle rumbling up.

_He gets it, John understands. We fit together, we'll work together perfectly._

John looked up at Sherlock. _You. You are bizarre. You take me on a 'date'. Convince me leap rooftops after criminals. Why won't you just, for once and all, tell me you know me from before? Say you're sorry?_

"So. What were we doing there?"

 _John. We were..._ "Proving a point."

"What point?"

 _You. You've been the point. Since I first called you._ Sherlock shouted, "Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs."

 _Now, hang on a minute,_ John thought. Bit high-handed, that. Then Sherlock smiled at him - so happy. So...proud? His chest squeezed at the sight. A knock came at the door and John opened it to see the burly restaurant owner. His eyes fell on the walking stick in the man's hand and he inhaled.

Angelo's eyes passed over John's flushed face, his heaving chest and handed over John's walking stick with a satisfied smirk before bidding him goodnight.

"Thank you!" said John and went in, his face bright. He smiled at Sherlock. _Thank you - for this. You brilliant man._

Sherlock's smile broadened. John's expression was the best thing he'd seen since that one crime with the web-footed...no, scartch that. Best thing he'd seen, the pleasure on it lighting John up. _Yes. That's what you need. That's what I want. You fit into my work. I would like you to fit into my life, John. And you'll definitely fit into the second bedroom. I hope, that is to say, I want you to...Won't you -?_

"Sherlock! What have you done?" Mrs. Hudson was distraught, crumpling a tissue in her hand.

Sherlock snarled. Not now! He ran up the stairs with John close behind, threw open the door and loomed over Lestrade. His entire being radiated tension. "What are you doing?"

Lestrade maintained his relaxed pose and said the thing most guaranteed to drive Sherlock into a helpless frenzy, considering his chequered past. "It's a drugs bust."

No, no, no! Sherlock bit his lip. _Lestrade, you bastard, you just had to say that in front of John._ His heart sank as he listened to John _defend_ him, scoffing at the police inspector's assumption that Sherlock was or ever had been a junkie. John - taking his side. He moved closer to the doctor, hating that he had to disillusion him. Had to be honest. "John." _Don't take their side._ His voice was low.

John looked up, arrested at the frozen look on Sherlock's face. They must be kidding, there was no way a man as clever as Sherlock would ever...

"What?" Sherlock snapped. John's face fell and Sherlock _hated_ him in that second. _Don't, it's not like that, why did I ever think he'd be different!_ "Shut up!" he snarled before John said anything else, anything like, 'Well, I've heard enough, I'm off. Good luck with your life, Mr. Holmes.'

John stood stock still in the midst of an overturned hive of policemen buzzing through 221B. Not brilliant, that, a potential flatmate that dabbled in drugs. A flatmate that had police raiding his flat, warranted or not. A flatmate - he kept his face blank as Sally poked her head in from the kitchen - that had a screw-cap jar of eyeballs? He'd laugh but if, _if_ he was to live here - no. No drugs.

Sherlock paced in mingled misery and rage. They were spoiling everything! John hadn't said a word since his revelation. _John, don't think that, I'm not!_ He endured Lestrade's lecture as long as he could before bursting out, "I am clean! I don't even smoke." He unbuttoned his cuff and exposed the nicotine patch for all to see.

John bit his cheek and looked away. _For a given value of clean, Sherlock. Though your substitution is a legal one._ Using his old skills, he could see the shape of things beneath Sherlock's surface. The brilliance. The loneliness. The addiction. Why?

Sherlock caught the movement and jerked his sleeve down. His shoulders slumped. There was a certain freedom in knowing that everything was ruined. He didn't have to hold back. John would leave. He would gather up his jacket and the stupid walking stick, go to his boring bedsit and be dead in a week from walking in front of a car. Go, just go, John. It didn't matter. _Why aren't you going? Just the work, it never let him down_. He turned on Anderson so fiercely the man was silenced. _Think I'm a psycho, do you? I'll show you._

John winced as the sharp-faced Anderson and Sherlock traded barbs. The Sherlock who just a minute ago had grinned at him in the front hall was withdrawing, becoming subsumed in the facts of the case as Lestrade laid them out. He grimaced as Sherlock's barrage of questions stumbled to bewildered halt. Yes, of course the dead woman's grieved over the loss of a daughter - shouldn't be that hard to understand, Sherlock. Anderson's cutting remark about sociopaths made John seethe, though.

 _My god,_ he thought. _Sherlock's behaviour I can understand given that you lot barged into his flat but can you people not let up on him? You can't strong-arm him like this, it's unfair._ Sherlock continued pacing, long legs scissoring and John took a breath.

"Maybe he talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock scowled. "That was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?" The silence that followed was thick. John's eyes were dark, his face expressionless. Sherlock stopped, mind whirling. John. Still here. And talking. Helping him? Oh. _Oh. What I said, that was..._ "Not good?"

 _There._ More than anything, John had needed to see this. Sherlock was so detached, so walled off that John could scarcely say whether the rudeness was accidental or deliberate any more. His gut told him the Sherlock just couldn't be arsed most of the time, 'sociopath' claims be damned. No. This - that Sherlock recognised his error and asked for help.

 _All right. I can do this._ John licked his lip. "Bit not good, yeah," he confirmed.

Sherlock sprang at him, pleading with him for understanding. "If you'd been murdered, in your last few seconds, what would you say?" _Keep talking, John, help me out here!_

"'Please God, let me live.'"

No, _no!_ "Use your imagination!" _I know you can, John!_

"I don't have to." John's voice was so matter of fact that Sherlock was pulled up short. _John..._ He'd done it again, spoken without thought. But it was enough, John's calm voice was just enough to trip a reaction in his brain. _Oh._ He almost had it, the answer was just there, revolving out of reach.

John closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Oh, give him the strength not to kill this madman in front of all these policemen. Never mind they'd probably let him go on grounds of justifiable cause, he'd wager. _If you were clever,_ Sherlock said. _But I suppose I'm only intelligent, or so you said once._ Not to compare with the dead clever Jennifer Wilson. That utter prat. He was giving John whiplash, how he was so brilliant one second and horrible the next.

_Well. Not bored. It's been a colourful night, at least._

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door asking about a cab. Sherlock shouted her away and John ground his teeth. "It's a drugs bust," he told the landlady in a sour tone but it didn't have quite the effect he'd hoped for. At her plaintive worry Sherlock exploded.

"Shut up! Everybody!"

Silence cloaked the room and ah... There it was. Sherlock could see it. He plucked the answer out of the air, grinning.

John took the wide-spectrum insults Sherlock spread with the same composure everyone else did. _My God. You genius bastard,_ he thought. _You've the social skills of a cranky toddler but.. ._ For the second time that night, John knew he was witnessing something exceptional as the detective paced and gestured. A deceitful, bloody rude experimenting bastard he may be but Sherlock was... extraordinary.

Sherlock ran through his chain of logic leading to the phone and the website's password and felt a curl of satisfaction when John arrived at the answer before the police. God, he was good. They were both good. He brushed off Mrs. Hudson's query about some taxi driver below and began harassing Lestrade for a search. "It's the first proper lead we've had."

John took the seat in front of the laptop. When the GPS search for the phone finished he paused. "Sherlock." His voice was uncertain. "It's... in 221 Baker Street."

For the third time that night Sherlock's brain was yanked back like a dog at the end of its lead. "How can it be here? How?"

Lestrade tucked his hands on his hips. "Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back - and it fell out somewhere."

"And I didn't notice it?"

John sighed at Sherlock's withering reply. God, if he had to teach Sherlock social niceties by example all over again just he did during their calls... May as well start. "Anyway," he told the D.I., "we texted him and he called back."

Sherlock held still as John's voice drifted over him. Too much, too many distractions. Quiet, quiet, let the light tenor wash over. Instead of straining for the answer, this time he allowed it to settle on him, soft as feathers.

_Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

Of course. His phone beeped with a text message but he knew who it was from even without looking. The killer... was at Baker Street. His pupils dilated and he tried to control his breathing.

Yes. Simple. Stupid to not have seen it before.

He had no idea what expression he betrayed but it must have been odd. _I must meet this man. Can't involve the police right now, the gig would be up._ John looked concerned, so Sherlock put him off.

"Just going to pop out for a breath of fresh air..." That much was true. He might have solved this case much sooner if he hadn't been so distracted. Thinking about John's leg, the flat, Mrs. Hudson bleating on, Anderson's face... God! He wanted nothing - not even John right now, no police interfering - just a little talk. _A serial killer wants to meet me, ME._

He left.

 

\-----

 

John's brow wrinkled as Sherlock descended the stairs. Fresh air? Now? When he'd been so caught up in the case? He went to the window, his mobile pressed to his ear, listening to Jennifer Wilson's phone ringing out. Below he could see Sherlock talking to the cabby. To John's amazement he got into the taxi and it pulled away. Open-mouthed, he turned to the D.I. But it was Sally, sharp-voiced and shrill with something like jealousy who finally convinced Lestrade their night's fun was over. "He's just a lunatic. He'll always let you down! You're wasting your time."

John and the detective looked at each other. John straightened his shoulders, tucking his hands behind him parade-rest style. He was not much impressed with an authority figure who let his team insult a consultant, no matter how infuriating Sherlock was. His lips compressed as Lestrade shrugged on his coat and complained to John, asking why Sherlock had left.

 _I should know? Let's think. Because there was no point in staying where he wasn't wanted, never mind what your people have done to his flat? Or what they said to his face?_ "You know him better than I do."

Lestrade denied this. With a chill John realised that this could very well be true. Sherlock was... closed off. It was odd to think that the only person who might have got inside his barriers was a retired, disabled Army doctor phone sex operator. This didn't excuse Lestrade. John lifted his chin.

"Why do you put up with him?" _I would love to know. He's gorgeous, he's interesting, he's_ _infuriating._ _One minute I want to bite his lip. The next I want to thrash him with this walking stick he just convinced me I didn't need any more. So - why?_

Lestrade was almost rueful as he admitted that he thought Sherlock was a great man. "If we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

John rocked back on his heels as the detective inspector left. That was an endorsement. All right. He'd wait a bit longer for Sherlock to contact him.

And he'd better have a bloody good explanation for - well, for everything.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock was enjoying himself immensely. The cabby pulled a gun and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Tedious. But the man was good, he had to admit. The cabby undertstood that the gun was nothing in this game, that Sherlock would follow him just to see what happened next.

Sherlock was flying, no plans, no parachute, nothing but his wits pitted against another's. It was exhilarating.  
He hadn't had such fun since he'd called a sex line and a man called Hardwin had startled him into silence.

Sherlock got out of the taxi and followed the cabby inside. Such fun.

 

\-----

 

John worried at his lip with his teeth. Sherlock hadn't texted, hadn't called. Where was the idiot? Time to toss in the towel. But a tension in his shoulders, some soldier's instinct told John something was up. He looked at his left hand, flexed it a few times. No tremor. Hm.

The hell with it. He couldn't wait here all night, he didn't have a change of clothes. If Sherlock needed him, he'd text. He grabbed his walking stick and turned away.

-Bleep. Bleep.- The GPS search for the phone! He grabbed the laptop and looked at the location. The blood drained from his face.

Shit. Oh, shit.

John Watson is an educated man. He is a man of considerable life experience. He is, by the estimation of one Sherlock Holmes, an intelligent man, which the consulting detective considers more important than educated. On rare occasions, his wit has been known to strike sparks.

 _But not clever,_ he thought, swallowing hard. _Not clever, or I'd have put it together faster. I was right, oh, I was right._

Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? Criminals, policemen, Sherlock Holmes. And taxi drivers. Taxi drivers.

_And the berk has gone and fucking well gone with him and I should have known, oh Christ! I should have said something, that I'd guessed it, I should have told him, should have stopped him. If anything happens to him..._

Time to choose a side, John.

It wasn't a choice. And there wasn't any time.

John slammed the laptop shut and ran out the door.

The walking stick hung abandoned on the chair.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock Holmes and the cabby, one self-styled genius named Jeff Hope, faced each other across the table in the college. Keep the man engaged, put off his sly allusions to the bottles with their freighted contents, keep him talking. The man was none too loath to continue, so assured in his own cleverness was he. That was good. The more Jeff Hope talked, the more tools he gave Sherlock to unlock the real secrets - who was this 'fan' that followed Sherlock's work?

 

\-----

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! John jogged through the hallways of the darkened college building, calling. The GPS trace had led him to two identical buildings. He banged though an unlocked door and saw Sherlock. Through the window. In the other building. He'd got the wrong one. He shouted until he raised echoes.

"Sherlock!"

 

\-----

 

Sherlock was hollow with boredom and disapointment. Jeff Hope wasn't going to give up the name without actual threats. Sherlock hated having to resort to such a low tactic when they'd been passing the time so agreeably. Ah, well. He held the pill up. So dissatisfying - knowing the man was just a puppet for a larger figure had diminished his interest to Sherlock. Well. One last thrill and then back to Baker Street and John. Would Hope take his own pill? He doubted it. Neither would Sherlock, he'd hold the capsule a moment then spit it out and call the police. This was getting boring. He lowered the pill to his lips.

_/ capsule casing tainted? / likelihood less than five percent / probability of death tonight / unlikely - ! ! ! / ?? / !_

The capsule jolted from his fingers and bounced away. The cabby lay wheezing, a dark pool spreading beneath him. Sherlock leapt the table and peered out through the gunshot hole, grey eyes wide and shocked.

No one. Nothing but an open window in the building directly across.

 

\-----

 

John waited outside the police line. He smiled to see Sherlock shrugging off the shock blankets that kept being offered him. The dark brows were drawn together in a scowl. John shook his head. What an idiot. The man was a menace to himself. To John's peace of mind. To his heart, which had nearly stopped when he saw what Sherlock had been about to do.

He saw Lestrade join Sherlock. Though he couldn't hear anything, he saw Sherlock embark on one of his amazing flights of logic. Sherlock paused, his eyes tracking until they found John. John licked his lip. _Got there finally, did you?_

Sherlock was still. Of course. John. John had figured it out, tracked him down. John stood by him against a room of policemen. John accompanied him on chases after serial killers.

John _killed_ for him.

It wouldn't do to smile at him just now, though.

Sherlock got rid of Lestrade and joined John. He looked hard at him and saw nothing but bland pleasantness. Inappropriate for a murder scene when one had done the shooting. _Oh, yes. We are two of a kind._ He just had to probe a little deeper at that mask. "Are you all right? You have just killed a man."

John turned his face from Sherlock's so serious expression. He had to get away or he'd start grinning. To stave off the hilarity bubbling up he joked about killing people who weren't very nice.

Sherlock choked. _That's so wrong... and exactly how I feel about stupid people some days!_

They moved off and Sherlock just had to make it worse with a dreadful jest about the route the cabby had taken. _Oh no, no..._ They both began to snigger. "Stop it!" John gasped.

Sherlock was grinning like the fellow Bedlamite he was. "You're the one who shot him... Oh sorry, it's just...nerves," he said as the passing Sally Donovan shot him a suspicious look.

John was half drunk on fading adrenaline and giggles, fond of this madman. "You were going to take that damned pill, weren't you."

"'Course I wasn't. Biding my time," said Sherlock. "Knew you'd turn up."

John smirked. "No you didn't." He understood Sherlock. Risking your life to feel alive? Or clever? How many people fucking did that? That two of them were facing each other on a cold street with blue lights flickering over them was a minor miracle.

Like knows like.

"That's how you get your kicks, isn't it?"

The trace of a smile touched Sherlock's lips. _So do you, John._ As a matter of form he protested and was rewarded with John's accolade. _I'm idiot, he says,_ thought Sherlock. _John, you have no idea how long I've waited for someone who isn't afraid to challenge me._

The moment was perfect. John waited. Sherlock paused a moment, taking in John's expectant face. He opened his mouth to tell John - what? That he hoped John would take the spare room? That Sherlock felt warmth in some place he didn't realise he had, to have a companion-in-arms at last? That he knew John, knew everything important about him? Tell him how much Sherlock enjoyed talking to him, almost as much as listening? Even from the very start, when they'd called themselves by different names and Sherlock had been too stupid to comprehend what a golden moment he'd held in his palm?

He couldn't. He'd ruin it, this fragile accord they had. He could wait. John would surely come to him. What came out instead was, "Dinner?"

"Starved," replied John. He sighed slightly but laughed as Sherlock talked about something about handles and finding the best Chinese. He had a bad moment when he saw Umbrella Man but Sherlock called the be-suited man 'brother' in a tone usually reserved for 'war criminals' and stalked off. John eyed the man, shook his head and followed.

 _And that's his family? God. Life was going to be lively._ John reflected on his life before that fateful first call - the drabness. The aching waiting. The way he yearned to connect with life again and yet never left his bedsit. Sherlock had come into his existence with the impact of an Improvised Explosive Device. He couldn't say it was a bad thing, though it had hurt. After Sherlock, he'd been getting better, getting out more. Life had begun to regain its savour and then here was the man himself again. And it seemed they fit, somehow.

His sleeve brushed against Sherlock's wool one as they walked out to the main road.

"I'll choose the taxi this time. It's clear you have no judgement in these matters," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but he was smiling. "Try not to kill the next one, then."

"Are you _trying_ to get me arrested?"

"I'd get you off," promised Sherlock.

Too bad that in the end Sherlock had to flag one down after several taxis failed to notice John's gestures.

They squabbled over the last dumpling at the Chinese restaurant. Sherlock was vivacious and witty and John listened with a half-smile, replete and comfortable. The bridge of Sherlock's nose was slightly flushed from the heat of the restaurant and the single bottle of Tsing Tao beer he'd allowed himself.

John sized up his new flatmate, the shirt unbuttoned at the throat, expensive cotton gleaming against pale skin. Gorgeous. _You're never going to apologise for the whole experiment, are you, he thought. You nearly did my head in. You're an arrogant, posh tit. You drop hints all over about our past but you've just never come out and said anything about it._

Sherlock cocked a brow at John, who just returned a lopsided smile and a shake of his head.

John breathed a sigh. _Probably just wants to forget the whole thing, put it all behind him. Maybe he really isn't into relationships much, in spite of him wanting to meet me that last call._ John felt a pang of regret. _Called me amazing and nearly had me believing at the end. Made me so damned angry. His fucking 'experiment'. But looks like that's over._

John could be philosophical about the whole thing now. If Sherlock wanted to get involved, he had to make the effort, get outside those walls he had erected around himself. If he could let himself be that vulnerable, that is.

Sherlock began to relay his observations on a couple a few tables away. John laughed out loud and Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling. _Thinks I'm brilliant, not a freak._

John caught the look. _With Sherlock, life is going to be quite... well, different from what I had. Looks like outrageous excitement is included in the rent,_ he thought. _Police raids, insults, mess. Hope I rub off on him a bit. The man needs more social graces._ He snorted, remembering their calls and Sherlock's acerbic resistance to small talk. Sherlock needed a lot of things.

Sherlock watched John pick through the steamed vegetables with his chopsticks for a cashew. John's right hand rested on the table. All John had to do was stretch his arm out a little to touch Sherlock's hand. He watched John's face, the relaxed enjoyment on it, Sherlock's grey eyes flicking from feature to feature.

All Sherlock had to do was do the same - lift a hand and stroke his little finger over John's hand, trace the inviting curve of that strong index finger. No. It was a new start for both of them. He wouldn't ruin this. He would be happy with what he had for the time being.

 _John, in my flat, in my life, helping in my work,_ mused Sherlock. _This will be perfect._

Two weeks later, he wasn't quite so sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Lest you doubt whether I have any intention of killing this story off soonish or if I will allow it to stagger on like Frankenstein's monster, mauling episodes for its own purposes, the answer is - definitely no.  
> In fact, I anticipate resolution within the next two sections, (or maybe three as I tend to just run on and on like a terrible juggernaut of mixed metaphor, description, adverbs and gerunds flying away left and right beneath my churning typewriter wheels in a massacre ofwriting style to make high school teachers cry). Ahem. Like that. You see my problem.
> 
> The epilogue is optional.
> 
> Will there be a happy ending? In answer, consider the following:
> 
> In Japan, they talk about en, or fate, things that are meant to be. In particular, one phrase has always resonated with me and when I see the two main characters walking together with matched strides despite their differing leg lengths, their shoulders touching, I think of it:
> 
>  **"Even when the sleeves of two people brush together, it is because it is meant to be."**  
>  Some things are fated.  
> In my J/S ship I trust. No, I haven't watched the new eps, as I want to do this story without getting too depressed to finish. Don't tell me anything.
> 
> Will Sherlock get his act together in my story? Will John clue in? Will there be actual sexy-times with the boys in person? Will there be telephone sex, since the whole premise started out as, you know, Sherlock calling a sex line? Answer: yes.
> 
> Thank you for hanging around! Next chapter - The Scorpion and the Frog. But not right away... I have three WIPs and I diligently alternate between them. Every fic deserves a fill.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	37. Scorpionis et Ranae, or The Scorpion and the Frog - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post SiP, and pre-TBB
> 
> The first two portions of John Watson blog are from: http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/  
> I hold no rights to the excerpts.

 

**31st Jan, 2011**

**The Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson** :  My new flatmate

So, last night I went to look at the flat. Sherlock had already moved in so it was a bit of a mess...  
And the madman himself? He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much. I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what we're going to watch on the telly.

 

 

"John! I've just had a text from Molly. She says she has three tongues for me."

"Really. Well."

"For use in testing food dye stains, don't be puerile. Molly works at Bart's. She was there the day we met?"

"We weren't introduced, but I remember her."

"Are you coming? I'd like to hear your observations."

"Doubt they'll be better than your own, but sure."

 

 

 **1st Feb, 2011  
l The Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson ** : A Study in Pink  
I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes...

 

 

"Do you mind if I use my own laptop now?"

"Just a minute."

"You said that forty minutes ago. You do have your own laptop."

"Mm. Took mine apart, needs more RAM."

"Okay. But I do need it back - there's a job-hunt website I have to bookmark. Time to brush up my CV."

"Jobs. Tiresome."

"Jobs - money. My pension won't be enough. Can I have it now?"

"Just a minute."

"Fine. Just don't be surprised if you end up paying the rent by yourself in a few months."

"Mm? Oh, here."

"Sherlock, watch out for that - God! Quick, mop it up!"

"Oh, that was clumsy of me. John, I apologise."

"You'd better get it working again, Sherlock. How am I supposed to find a job without a computer these days?"

"Good point. I'll take care of that."

 

 

**5/2/2011 13:08  
I require your assistance.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:09  
John.  
Where are you?  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:10  
Regents Park.**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:10  
You should sign your texts.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:11  
I'm skimming stones.  
What do you want?  
JW**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:11  
The reaction was stronger than  
anticipated.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:12  
We may need a new work top.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:13  
Oh my god.  
JW**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:13  
Never mind.  
I'll handle it.  
Don't come.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:14  
Then stop texting me.  
JW**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:15  
I can't afford this.  
Try not to damage anything else.  
JW**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:15  
O ye of little faith.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:17  
It's not faith.  
It's prior knowledge.**

**5/2/2011 13:17  
How so?  
SH**

**5/2/2011 13:18  
My laptop - mean anything to you?  
I'll be in later.**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:18  
You forgot to sign your text again.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:20  
Stop texting me.  
Go and do damage control.  
JW**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:24  
The milk helped slow the reaction.  
SH**

**  
**

**5/2/2011 13:25  
I'll add it to the shopping list.  
JW**

 

**  
**

"That was lovely. Was that Copland's concerto?"

"You know it? I was improvising from that, yes."

"I noticed. You know I used to..."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I played clarinet, once."

"You should take it up again. Music is excellent for promoting orderly thinking. It's as close to the purity of mathematics as any art will ever come."

"Heh. Somehow I don't think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate the sounds of me getting my technique back into working order again."

"Evidence is to the contrary - she tolerates my violin, doesn't she?"

"Yes, for the sake of the few times you stop twiddling with it and actually play, I think. A squawking clarinet isn't really the same."

"I almost never have anyone with whom to play a duet. You might consider it."

"Too bad there are no duets for clarinet and violin."

"There are a few. Quite rare, I did tell -"

"Tell me what?"

"Nothing. Never mind, stupid of me to suggest it."

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No."

 

 

**7th Feb, 2011  
The Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson: **

He never slips up. He makes me doubt my sanity. It really is as if he forgot we ever conducted torrid telephonic sex or had the worst argument in the history of my life.

How can some one who claims to be a cold-minded, sociopathic thinking machine play violin like that? My god, that was beautiful.

Answer - he's not what he pretends to be. Don't let yourself be deceived, John Watson. He is still everything that fascinates you, and still the bastard who fucked you over.

_Hugh._

Anyway, I'm up in my room, typing this in on my refurbished laptop (Thank you Sherlock for not dropping acid on it as well), just to keep some things clear and fresh. There are times when seeing things written down can help, so maybe Ella wasn't all wrong about blogging. I just don't want to publish all my thoughts for Ella and Sherlock and the world to see. I like my privacy.

I'd save this as a locked entry, but Sherlock borrows my laptop sometimes. I don't trust myself not to leave a tab open or forget to log out or something.

Anyway.

Delete entry - Y/N?  
Yes  
 **Entry deleted**

 

**  
**

"I don't know how anyone can live like this."

"For my work, I need to have data. This does involve running experiments sometimes."

"You could at least replace the chopping board. I don't think this one can be used for normal food any more. I insist, in fact."

"Take my card."

"It would be a bit more meaningful if you did it yourself. _I_ replaced the last one."

"But I'm not the one who is demanding a new chopping board. It's fine, I bleached it."

"That's not the point!"

"The current one is safe for use, and I see no reason to exert myself to get a new one. The whole topic is uninteresting to me. Would you like a take-away tonight?"

"Fine. You're paying. And you will pay for a new board."

"As you like. Pass me my phone."

 

 

Fri, Feb 11, 2011 at 17:56  
 **To: John Watson**  
 **From: Mike Stamford** .uk  
 **Subject:** The flat-share

Hey John

Just thought I'd check up on you! How are things working out with the flat share? I'm glad you have the chance to stay in London. I can't picture you anywhere else.

I loved the blog entry on the serial suicide case. Sounds like it was an exciting night! I'm not surprised Sherlock worked it out. And he dragged you into it?

Tell me he's bearable to live with, I was a little worried about that. Not that I don't think you can handle him!

 

Fri, Feb 11, 2011 at 18:32  
 **To: Mike Stamford**.uk  
 **From: John Watson**  
 **Subject:** Re: The flat-share

Hi Mike

It's been interesting so far, to say the least. I never expected to flat-share with someone like Sherlock, that's for certain. He's in a class by himself - just not sure what class that is!

221B Baker Street is quite nice, I think I'll enjoy living there. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson is a dear. She brings up biscuits every now and then, but not because she's our housekeeper, as she reminds us. Doesn't keep Sherlock from trying to treat her as one, but she's firm with him.

I didn't mind getting dragged into the case. Got my heart going at times, but it was the most fun I've had in a long while. I think I was able to help out a bit.

By the way, I haven't thanked you for putting me on to the flat-share. Don't worry, it's bearable living with Sherlock. After Afghanistan, I think I can handle it. He's a clever one. Funny in odd ways. I think it'll work out.

Of course, it would be better if he didn't use random things lying around for his experiments. Yesterday he dissolved a slip of paper I had left out in some kind of solution. It had the phone number of a woman I met at a coffee shop I sometimes go to. Bit of a shame, no one's given me their number in a while.

 

Fri, Feb 11, 2011 at 18:45  
 **To: John Watson**  
 **From: Mike Stamford**.uk  
 **Subject:** Re: re: The flat-share

Oh good, I'm glad you'll be able to get on with Sherlock. Somehow I knew you would be able to keep up with him!

He destroyed the phone number? I can picture him doing that! Ha that's too bad! Never mind, plenty more where that came from.

Anyway, now you're definitely staying in town, let's keep in touch. Here's my mobile number, in case you want to have a drink one night...

 

 

"How are things with your doctor? He seemed vexed yesterday."

"He's fine, and really, you needn't concern yourself. I don't pay taxes in order for you to misuse the CCTV network to spy."

"Will you introduce him to me more formally at some point?'

"You made quite an impression both times you met. England isn't a dystopian state yet, and there is no need to play Big Brother. It puts people off."

"I would like to talk more with the man my brother spent a considerable amount of effort in locating and manoeuvring into becoming his... flatmate. Your John really is most singular."

"That's lovely. But _Dr. Watson_ hasn't expressed a desire for such an encounter again."

"Sherlock. Have you considered the consequences of- "

" _Stop spying_. I'm fine. _We_ are fine. Leave us alone."

 

 

**Welcome to London Dating, the site for putting 'relate' into relationships!**

**Sheryl_28** (2011-2-13 11:06) writes: **Flatmate woes**  
Hi. Sorry, this isn't really a question about dating. I have this great flatmate, and I want us to get on. He's really perfect, and I don't want to lose him!

 **QTdaMighty** (2011-2-13 11:16) writes: Hi Sheryl_28. You sure it's not about dating? ;)

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-2-13 11:20) writes: Yes I'm sure! It's a relationship question, tho.

 **QTdaMighty** (2011-2-13 11:27) writes: Just kidding, sometimes it can be awkward when one flatmate starts to fancy the other and the other has no interest.

 **Anonymous** (2011-2-13 11:30) writes: Flatmates - best potential source of live-in sex in the world! R U mad? Jump him!

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-2-13 11:34) writes: o_O. Um, no, I don't want to take things that way! Unless he wants to - don't want to screw up a good situation! We're quite different anyway. Problem is, I'm a bit shy and bad at being starting friendships.

 **QTdaMighty** (2011-2-13 11:38) writes: BFF it is then! I don't know, just hang out together, have some laughs. Talk.

 **AltogthrNow** (2011-2-13 11:42) writes: Second that emotion. I love a guy or gal who can make me laugh. Best times in the world.

 **Sheryl_28** ( 2011-2-13 11:43) writes: Well I'm always talking about work with him. Thnx, I'll give it a go.

 

 

"Oh my god, you berk. You idiot!"

"Stop, stop... My stomach can't take it."

"You shouldn't have looked at me. Oh, the look on Anderson's face! How was I supposed to keep a straight face?"

"You started it. You are the one who this morning you doubted my ability to throw my voice. And thank you for the set-up, by the way, with that patently idiotic statement that the victim might still be alive."

"Never let it be said a former med student doesn't know how to set up a prank. I really didn't think you'd do it! And oh god, when he picked up the severed hand to check for... "

"' _Don't touch me!_ '"

"Stop, you maniac! No, no, don't look at me!"

"Oh, oh... all right then. Being serious again. Ahem."

"Too late for that. Doubt Lestrade will be calling again."

"He will. Anyway, didn't you see him covering his mouth?"

"That was the second most ridiculous thing I've seen you do."

"Yes, I was brilliant, wasn't I?"

"Vain."

 

 

**17th Feb, 2011  
The Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson:**

Sherlock really is amazing. My god, the man is clever. The things he does, the way he can see everything about a person or a crime in just a few moments - I can see why his work is so important to him. And it matters - he does great things, helping people. He is good. Very good.

He still has his moments though. The man could learn a few things about being a decent flatmate - I don't mean paying for things, but making an effort to help out a bit more. Tidy up the living room for once. I know he can, I've seen into his room. Not much of an issue, you might point out, if that weren't the only thing.

I think I was right. He doesn't want to bring up the whole phone call history we had. Not that I'm going to - bit awkward after all we've been and done since then. I haven't forgotten. I don't think anything got to me as badly in years - but I am beginning to see how he gets wrong-headed about things, and just bulls through, oblivious to everyone.

And so we go on - he doesn't say anything, and I won't. Got my pride.

Experiments. Social interaction. Christ. Talk about manners. How can he be so clever and so thick about the effect he has on people?

Every time he opens his mouth it's either a deadly insult or something so insightful and brilliant I can't help but want to - want to what? He hasn't shown a spark of interest. In _anyone_.

 

God, I fancy him though.

Delete entry - Y/N?  
Yes  
 **Entry deleted**

 

**  
**

"...and of course the step-father didn't notice - too busy trying to keep the family's fortunes afloat. The daughter honestly thought she was helping her family, trying to cancel her step-father's gambling debts."

"I can't believe it. That was... the poor girl was terrified, Sherlock!"

"Of course she was. With the police involved, all bets were off, and therefore her entire family was open for supposed retribution. A complete fallacy, obviously."

"What do you mean?"

"The mother was complicit. A new husband, a lovely young daughter - you noticed the plastic surgery scars, the slight bruising from injections? That was a woman afraid of losing her looks and terrified of competition. Even from her own child. Easier to let her daughter think their safety was an issue, plant the idea. The gambling debts were real enough, the men involved all too willing to take advantage and take her 'services' in trade. Enterprising way to clear the field, even if it meant the daughter was degraded. Clever."

"-"

"What. You've that look on your face. What is it?"

"Which part of it could be considered 'clever,' Sherlock? The way a woman was so selfish, so worried about her sham of of a marriage that she pushed her daughter into going to her step-father's debtors and volunteering to whore? Or is it clever that that the daughter believed that she was nobly saving her family from danger? By... by _degrading_ herself in the sex industry? Is that what you think, Sherlock? Is it?"

"John, that's not what I meant, I never wanted to imply-"

"Shut up. You've said enough, I think."

 

 

**Welcome to London Dating, the site for putting 'relate' into relationships!**

**Sheryl_28** (2011-2-23 23:32) writes: **God I am such a berk!**  
I've gone and said something, and now my flatmate is super-angry with me! The problem is I didn't realise what I had said would bother him, not until after! What do I do?

 **QTdaMighty** (2011-2-23 23:45) writes: Still not dating?

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-2-23 23:46) writes: NO.

 **Angel43** (2011-2-23 23:57) writes: lol foot in mouth disease happens to us all sweety. Do something nice and try to apologise. This applies equally to not-boyfriends, flatmates, mates, family - everyone. You ARE a bit awkward, aren't you. What did you say?

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-2-23 00:03) writes: Um. Well I may have accidentally said something about his old job position being - well that people don't respect anyone in that job? I swear I didn't mean to, it just came out all wrong.

 **Anonymous** (2011-2-23 00:10) writes: Heard of the saying, "Think before you speak"? Never talk shite about people's jobs unless they openly indicate they disdain it themselves. You don't like his old job? Well, he had to do it. Why don't you kick him square while you are at it? Jayzus, learn some manners.

 **Xirtam** (2011-2-23 00:16) writes: are you completely blond or something? you sound it Sheryl_28.

 **whotoseek** (2011-2-23 00:18) writes: Let's not get into the blonde thing. Also - spell it blonde with an 'e' if you're talking about a woman.

 **Xirtam** (2011-2-23 00:20) writes: fuck off grammar Nazi.

 **(Comment deleted)** (2011-2-23 00:21)

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-2-23 00:23) writes: I hope I always think before I speak. I don't disrespect his job at all, the reverse in fact. I think it's wonderful he did it. I think he's great.

 

 

"Sherlock. Why is there a bag with ten pairs of black socks from Uniqlo in front of my bedroom door?"

"Oh, I when I went through your laundry basket I noticed that several of yours were getting thin."

"You went through - never mind, I don't want to know. Thank you, I guess."

"You're welcome."

"Why all black?"

"Because it's the only colour I found in the basket. Therefore -"

"Never mind."

"I approve. It's logical to have all the same colour and brand when one dresses in a hurry."

"Like you do, I'm guessing?"

"Don't be ridiculous, my socks don't come from Uniqlo."

"Ha. No. Of course not."

"Your jeans label indicated..."

"Yes, fine! Not all of us can wear suits everyday, some of us are still subsisting on a disability pension."

"...Biscuit? I just opened the packet."

"Don't mind if I do."

 

 

**23/2/2011 18:32  
Do you understand him at all Mike?  
JW**

**  
**

**23/2/2011 18:35  
Sherlock? No not really.  
He's an odd duck.  
Mike S**

**  
**

**23/2/2011 18:38  
That's about what I thought.  
Thanks.  
JW**

**  
**

**23/2/2011 18:40  
What's this about? You all right?  
Mike S**

**23/2/2011 18:42  
It's a long story.  
Also too weird to explain.  
JW**

**  
**

**23/2/2011 18:44  
Don't know whether to laugh or kill him.  
It's just a bit much at the moment.  
JW**

**23/2/2011 18:48  
Say no more, I know Sherlock.  
Drink? It's quiz night tonight.  
Mike S**

**  
**

**23/2/2011 18:51  
God yes.  
Meet you at the Lion in twenty.  
JW**

 

**  
**

"John! Wake up! Lestrade's just texted. There's been a murder."

"...time is it? God. It's five in the morning, Sherlock! Can't it wait?"

"You went to bed six hours ago, that is more than sufficient time for rest. I have to get to the scene before any evidence is trodden into the pavement. Come on!"

"Yes I went to bed at eleven, that doesn't mean I slept. The police have a medical examiner, they don't need me."

" _I_ need you. No one else will work with me."

"Fine. But any chance for a coffee? I won't be any use otherwise."

"Now is not the time for coffee, John!"

"Right. Of course not."

 

 

****2011/2/25** **

****Dr. John H. Watson  
221B Baker Street  
London, Greater London  
NW1 6XE** **

**Dear Dr. Watson**

**The St Paul's Road Medical Centre wants to thank you for your interview for the position of General Practitioner. This letter is to let you know we have selected another candidate.**

**You were an exceptional candidate for the position and we hope that while you were not chosen...**

 

**  
**

"John. John!"

"...hhhhggh..."

"John, talk to me. Where are you hurt? Did he stab you?"

"-"

"Slash in the sleeve. The bleeding is insignificant, just a shallow slice. Here, let me help you sit up."

"No... wait... lie down..."

"All right."

"Hah.. haaa. Oh, fuck. Had...the wind... knocked out. God, my head..."

"Ah. Yes, there's a lump forming. Let me see your eyes. Pupil dilation normal."

"Sherlock."

"Yes."

"Sherlock. I'm... all right. You can... let go of my face now."

"Yes. Er. Did you see what shoes he was wearing?"

"No, sorry. Was a bit busy... being tackled down four steps there by a human bus."

"Pity. Still, we've got a chance, I know exactly where McFarland will be going. Come on, John! No time for lying around."

 

 

****2nd March 2011  
Barclay's Bank  
136 Streatham High Road  
Streatham  
London  
SW16 1BW ** **

**Dear Dr. John H. Watson**

**This is to notify you that as of 28th Feb, 2011, you have used £128.15 of your £300 overdraft limit. In 14 days, if the amount has not been repaid, we will begin charging interest at a rate of 19.3%...**

 

**  
**

"Hullo, Harry?"

"John! How are you? It's been a while."

"I guess so. A few weeks?"

"Yeah, since after that thing with the serial killer."

"I know, I'm sorry I took so long."

"Glad you've called, I was worried."

"Isn't it my job to worry about you? As your older brother?"

"You can try! But really. I'm fine. Well, not really, but it's better than it was, yeah?"

"Good enough to be getting on with, then."

"Exactly. What about you? How's things?"

"Good, it's been pretty good. I mean, I've been keeping pretty busy."

"Oh yeah?"

"Sherlock - you know, the flat-mate I mentioned on my blog -"

"That post about the pink lady was mental, by the way..."

"Yes, I was the one censoring your comments, remember? Anyway, he brings me along on his consultations sometimes, for medical opinions."

"Oh, glad you're working! Does consulting work pay well then?"

"Well, actually -"

"John. John, please tell me you've got something other than your pension. A flat in London, even shared, isn't cheap."

"I know. I just really haven't had the time to properly look for a job."

"Sherlock keeping you busy then? Oh. I _see_."

"Harry..."

"No, no. I'm relieved! I always wondered... You haven't had any serious girlfriends since you joined up, and now you've got a live-in -"

"Harry, for god's sake! This is not a joking matter."

"No, this is great! How long have you -?"

"Hang on a tick, Sherlock is shouting something."

...

..

"I don't know... No, I'm on the phone! Yes, with my sister! You remember I have a sister, called _Harry_? Not now, Sherlock! ... sorry about that."

"What was that all about?"

"I don't know, something about the extractor hood over the oven."

"Look, all joking aside, I'm happy for you. You're writing stuff, having adventures... It's like having the old John back."

"That bad, was I?"

"Even I could tell, and you know I was never the bright one in the family."

"Ha."

"You sound so much better."

"I am better. It's done me good. Not using my stick any more."

"No way! That's great news, John. How?"

"I don't know really. It was all in my mind, you know. I couldn't let it go. Sherlock just tricked me out of it one night. Been fine ever since."

"I'll thank him if you ever let me meet him. He means a lot to you from the sound of it."

"Harry... It's not like that. Not likely ever to be like that. He's not... oh, what now?"

"What is it?"

...

..

"Harry, look, I'll call you back later, okay? It's been great talking with you, but the kitchen's filling with purple smoke right now."

"What? John Watson, don't you dare hang up without telling me -"

" _Bloody_ experiments...!"

*click*

 

 

**7/3/2011 22:25  
This program is boring.  
SH**

**  
**

"It's not boring, Sherlock. It's a rerun of 24. And why are you texting me when I am right here in the room?"

 

**7/3/2011 22:27  
The intelligence of the protagonists  
as compared with the antagonists fills  
me with despair.  
SH**

**  
**

"Mm hm?"

 

**7/3/2011 22:29  
The heroes don't deserve to prevail.  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:30  
Their collective stupidity almost  
matches Anderson's.  
SH**

**  
**

"Trying to write an email here, Sherlock."

 

**7/3/2011 22:31  
I may expire from ennui.  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:32  
All right I'll play along.  
You won't die from boredom.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:32  
You forgot to sign your text.  
I keep reminding you.  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:33  
So? You are not even  
watching the telly.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:33  
Who is texting me?  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:34  
Your flatmate you prat.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:35  
There's no evidence.  
I mistrust texts from persona incognita.  
I suspect sinister siblings.  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:35  
It's John.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:36  
And I know you are not watching TV  
because you are staring at the back  
of my head.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:36  
Speaking of sinister people.  
Stop it.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:37  
Mysterious texts continue to arrive.  
Am not staring.  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:38  
Anyway how would you know?  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:39  
My laptop screen is reflective.  
JW**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:39  
John! I am astonished.  
You are applying my methods.  
SH**

**  
**

**2011/3/7/22:40  
Sarcasm not needed.  
Learned that from James Bond.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:41  
I wasn't being sarcastic.  
James who?  
And you forgot to sign your name again.  
SH**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:42  
You are ridiculous.  
I'm going up to bed now.**

**  
**

**7/3/2011 22:45  
Turn off the telly if you don't like it.  
Not signing this text either.**

**  
**

"Good night."

"Good night, John."

 

 

**8th March, 2011  
The Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson: **

**  
**

That was almost like flirting, that text exchange. But he never followed up on it, so... What the hell? Good thing I left. Or who knows what I might have said.

He's getting to me. He's getting to me and he isn't even interested and I have to think about this. It's hopeless.

Delete entry - Y/N?  
Yes  
 **Entry deleted**

 

**  
**

"You can NOT keep doing that, Sherlock! You cannot keep haring off on your own!"

"Really, John. I'll heal."

"You'll heal. You'll _heal_."

"You sound like a parrot."

"Sherlock, they were in the process of kicking out your kidneys when I caught up!"

"Don't exaggerate, they only got a few blows in."

"A few...! Do you even hear yourself?"

"Perfectly well, as a matter of fact."

"Do you have a death wish?"

"No. "

"Then why did you leave me behind?"

"It was not my intention. I knew the bookie had information concerning the Major's cat, I knew where to find him, I took the opportunity."

"And of course, with your massive brain you didn't think that he would have friends with him? No, don't answer that, I know better."

"It occurred to me. There was no time!"

"And you still left me behind. Why? I can take care of myself! Why do you bring me along if you don't want my help?"

"John, I do need your help. I... am not accustomed to working closely with another person. My habits -"

"Are rubbish. You can change them. You just don't want to. You never...Why do I even... God!"

"That's not true, John. I can change."

"I'll believe it when I see it. You could die, Sherlock. You could die, and then what would - What would everyone do?"

"-"

"Well. Can you move? Let's get you out of here. Lucky for you I showed up when I did."

"Yes. Yes, it was lucky."

 

 

[Locked] **User:** s_holmes  
 **Case Notes  
Title ** \- Vauxhall Drug Ring  
11th March, 2011

 **Abstract** \- Details leading to the arrest of Arthur 'Arty' McFarland, suspected maker and distributor of methamphetamine...

 

 **Procedural** \- …police demanded entry, whereupon the suspect fled the location. I had positioned John on a potential avenue of escape and gave pursuit myself while the police secured the laboratory... My surmise about the suspect's escape vector proved correct.

While in pursuit, I found John lying still at the foot of a flight of four steps.

John's statement, paraphrased - Upon seeing his escape blocked, McFarland pulled out a knife and ran at him, 'shouting like a nutter.' John evaded being stabbed but sustained a cut on the upper arm. McFarland's momentum was enough to knock John down the steps.

An examination of John's physical condition showed that the cut was minor though bleeding freely. Of more concern was his inability to breathe. After approximately one minute twenty five seconds his respiration returned to normal. Despite the possibility of McFarland's escape, I checked John's condition more thoroughly, finding that though he had a head injury, it was minor. His pupils were matched in size and though his ability to focus was slower than normal, he did not have a severe concussion. His eyes are very blue, but the right eye has a central heterochromatic ring of light copper around the iris - quite distinctive. I then urged him to his feet to continue the chase.

McFarland was able to scale a chain-link fence (threads from shirt caught at top, small smear of blood from a cut, bends in the wire links from his weight) and leave the vicinity.

 

 **Results:** McFarland was picked up by police within 40 minutes based on information I was able to...

 

 **Discussion** \- Miscalculations: McFarland is a well-known figure in underground boxing bouts. Victims connected to his crimes are beaten, often severely. Carrying a knife is atypical behaviour...

Further: failure to inform John of the physical size/prowess of McFarland. John is in excellent physical condition for a man of his age, but in some circumstances...

Further: Positioning John at the top of steps evidently a mistake. The thought of possible injuries resulting from such a fall are disturbing. The potential for spinal injury alone...

 

 **Query** – Having confirmed within 20 seconds of finding John that he was in no immediate danger, should I have left his side to continue after McFarland? Or would having John with me have been the deciding factor if we had caught up with McFarland ahead of the police?

 

Save before logging out? [ **Y/N** ]  
Y  
 **Saved**

 

**  
**

"...and it is rare for a person to have glucose intolerance and impaired immune function at the same time. As the supposed victim was a shut-in who rarely saw the light of day, and taking into account the deformity of the pineal gland, it was obvious that it wasn't a case of murder for the sake of life insurance. The positioning of body was tricky but it was clear enough. Just a suicide due to severe depression - we might encounter more of these if we lived in a more northerly latitude. You should write this case up, John. It would make an interesting study for a medical journal."

  
"Mm..."

  
"John? You'll wake up stiff if you persist in sleeping in that chair. _John_."

 

"Never mind. Here, let me... Sleep well, John."

 

 

**16th March, 2011  
The Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson: **

Isn't this a right mess.

I thought I knew what I was getting into when I moved in with Sherlock Holmes. Fewer police raids, thankfully. Excitement, sure. As for the phone experiment, I think I'll never know. How do you bring up something that happened three months ago if the other person is determined to pretend it never happened? Answer: you don't.

So what's the problem? Hard to articulate, so here I am again. Typing slowly as the old brain revolves. Putting down the good and bad about living here, about Sherlock - maybe seeing it in black and white will help.

Where to start? Good things, then.

He got me to leave off the walking stick. I get the odd twinge, but then we're off and running, someone's trying to chuck me down a stairwell and somehow I forget I have a dodgy leg. I'm not having as many nightmares. My hand doesn't tremble any more. Not that I needed Sherlock's creepy brother to tell me why it doesn't. Twat.

I guess moving in with a certifiable madman has been good for my mental state, at least. Sherlock is brilliant. Talented. Impossible to ignore. Since that very first call, he's kept me from fading. I haven't felt this alive since the war. I could love him for that alone. God that sounds like I'm in a Mills and Boon novel. Anyway.

The negative side? He nicks my laptop, uses my phone, treats me like an errand boy. I have no privacy except what's in my head and even then... He drags me to cases even though he doesn't actually need my medical opinion. He's oblivious to the fact that I have to get a job. He listens to me about as much as he does his skull. It drives me mad when he says he needs me for a case and then hares off. There's justifiable risk, and then there's what he does.

He has no sense of boundaries. Well, I ran into that right off when he called the sex line. He was always pushing for more, more, more. I feel like he's still testing me, and now it's weirder because he gets right into my personal space, close enough to kiss. Except he doesn't. He just watches, like he's waiting for something. It's all I can do some days not to lean into him and -

Okay. So what's the problem? Why don't I just kiss him and get this over with? Besides the fact he has never shown the slightest interest?

God, it's hard to get this right. Okay, here goes. I feel like I'm getting reeled into his life. Absorbed. Slotted into some convenient place. For him the work comes first and I'm becoming some kind of adjunct. Does he even realize what he's doing?

The problem is... the problem is it would be so easy. His work helps people. Even I can see the greater good there. And it's helped me - I'm so much better than I was after Afghanistan. But if I let his purpose become mine, where does that leave me? Lost. It would erode me, as an individual.

It's scary because it's tempting. Sherlock is so much bigger than life, it would be easy to be sucked into his wake. I was so alone, in the bedsit with the walls closing in on me. He's the best thing to happen to me in a long time. I could fall, so easily. And the longer I'm here and let this go on, the more my defences are crumbling.

I can't. I am not his tool to use and ignore at whim. I can't do this, can't let my guard down again, it will end up worse than before. John Watson you are not doing this. He's not interested in you. He doesn't see you, not really, and you are not going to fall for him. Not for Sherlock.

You don't get to have all of me, Sherlock Holmes.

Because I don't think I'll ever get anything back.

Delete entry - Y/N?  
Yes  
 **Entry deleted**

 

**  
**

"It's true, though, Alex. I haven't had much luck so far with getting a job. I've been - well, my life does get a bit hectic but I'm beginning to wonder if they just don't think I'm past it."

"What, you? Please, Doctor Watson, you don't look much older than thirty five. If the NHS thinks you're too old, they need to see a doctor themselves!"

"Heh. Thanks for that. It has been worrying me, though. I can't keep up with expenses in London much longer."

"Listen, I have a friend who works at a practice in Paddington, I could ask her if she knows of anything."

"That would be... that'd be wonderful. If you don't mind, I would appreciate it."

"How about we meet for a coffee tomorrow, talk about -"

" _John._ Come with me."

"Um, could you excuse me, Alex?"

"Of course, Doctor. Here, take my card. Contact me, all right? If - you're available?"

"I'll do that, thanks - Sherlock. Sherlock! Leave off!"

"I beg your pardon. I only wanted to see your notes of the witness' account of the attack. But if you'd rather go back to flirting with him -"

"Would you keep your voice down! I was not flirting with him, he offered to help me with my job search!"

"Outright flattery, offers of help guaranteed to put you in his debt and hope for further contact - oh, that was definite invitation for further involvement on his part. Obvious. Then there's the close proximity, elevated heart rate, and increased respiration on yours. Shall I leave you two alone?"

"That. That is none of your business. He was offering to help me find work. If he wanted to make a pass, what's wrong with that? Why shouldn't I enjoy his interest? It's what _normal_ people do in their normal, everyday lives! People like me! It's nice to be flattered once in while, isn't it? You of all people should know that."

"Yes. But during an investigation a professional demeanour -"

"Bugger that, that's rich coming from you! You told me to collect information, and I have. Anything beyond that - well, I'm not a 'professional' consulting detective, am I? I'm not the one married to my work. I don't have work. I can't... listen. I'm done here; here's the notes from the interview."

"John -"

"I need to... I have something else to do. Something _normal_ , you wouldn't be interested. I'll see you back at Baker Street."

"...John, I'd be interested."

_Because you are not a normal, everyday person. Because it's you._

 

_  
_

**Welcome to London Dating, the site for putting 'relate' into relationships!  
Sheryl_28 ** (2011-3-21 11:09) writes: **Confused (me again with the flat mate)**

I don't get it. We really are working out well together but something lately hasn't been good. He actually shouted at me the other day! :(

I mean I know I'm awkward and don't have much experience living with people. He helps me out with my work, I like hanging out with him. I like having him near, it actually feels weird and uncomfortable when he's not! We joke, watch bad telly.

I don't think I'm stupid - in my job I handle lots of info, and it's easy to categorize it. But I can't understand why it feels like he's pulling away.

 **Whotoseek** (2011-3-21 11:24) writes: What's your job anyway Sheryl_28?

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 11:30) writes: Hard to describe. Kinda like a statistical consultant. I look at data, analyse, filter it and give conclusions. It's child's play for me but I don't get what's going on in his head! I mean, if I used work terms for him, he looks like a really average survey sample but I guess he's not!

 **Anonymous** (2011-3-21 11:33) writes: Wow huge nerd alert

 **Angel43** (2011-3-21 11:43) writes: That's not really helpful, anon.  
Well first off he's not data. You said you are not good with people, right? I think you wrote in a previous post you are shy? So give up 'analysing', coz it's not going to work with people, pet. If he's that special, he's not going to fit any box you can think of. And it's obvious you are not good at analysing people if you are as shy as you say.

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 11:47) writes: He told me once I couldn't tick off boxes in a textbook and understand people :( But for stats that usually does work.

 **QtdaMighty** (2011-3-21 11:59) writes: He's right. And we keep hearing about your side of things. So you like talking to him, hanging out with him, etc. And now he doesn't - why? What's changed? Why did he yell at you?

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 12:12) writes: Um. Well I thought he was comfortable how things were. I include him in a lot of my life, he fits right in SO PERFECT. But he was angry - well I think one thing he's worried about is money which is ridiculous, I can take care of that for him. And he was working with me on a survey thingy and this guy kept hitting on him, and I told him to be professional and he snapped. OK, I know what you're going to say about that, go on.

 **QtdaMighty** (2011-3-21 12:28) writes: Oh FINALLY here it is folks, what we've been waiting for since her first little 'help me with my flat-mate!' post. Is someone SMITTEN? Or is it just crazy flat-mate obsession? :D

 **sakura_chan** (2011-3-21 12:29) writes: Danger, Will Robinson. Control freak in da house.

 **Xirtam** (2011-3-21 12:35) writes: ^^^^THIS^^^^

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 12:36) writes:  >:(

 **kittypink** (2011-3-21 12:42) writes: LOL ok that was a bit harsh but yeah.

 **Whotoseek** (2011-3-21 12:50) writes: Doesn't he have a job? I'd worry about money too if I were in his place. Tho it's sweet you want to foot the bills, very anti-trad. Wish you would take care of my bills!

 **Anonymous** (2011-3-21 12:53) writes: Um you are kinda pushing it maybe? You sound a bit smothery.

 **Angel43** (2011-3-21 13:01) writes: You like talking, you have fun. You feel 'weird' when he's not around. You think he's perfect. More importantly, you act like a jealous girlfriend when someone else showed an interest. Girl you better own up - you don't want him as just a flat mate any more do you.

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 13:07) writes: ...I don't want this. It wasn't supposed to be like this, I swear I never meant to ask for more. I can't.

 **Xirtam** (2011-3-21 13:19) writes: Pfft you think you r the 1st to have this problem fancying your flat mate? Why can't you?

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 13:20) writes: I promised.

 **QtdaMighty** (2011-3-21 13:29) writes: God what does THAT mean? No sex before marriage? No boyfriends? No shagging flatmates?

 **kittypink** (2011-3-21 13:32) writes: Never mind that. Think what'll happen when she actually tries to confess she likes him. After living together for months? He'll run, like, 500 miles. Teh awkward! ;)

 **Sheryl_28** (2011-3-21 13:33) writes: OMG. This is hell. This is INTOLERABLE.

 **sakura_chan** (2011-3-21 14:16) writes: Poor guy, living with a bunny boiler.

 **Anonymous** (2011-3-21 14:19) writes: Bunny boiler wtf?

 **Xirtam** (2011-3-21 15:00) Fatal Attraction!!1! Google it, you infant!

 **QtdaMighty** (2011-3-22 20:18) writes: Hello? Don't quit on us!

 **Anonymous** (2011-3-23 06:35) writes: lol nice going guyz


	38. Scorpionis et Ranae, or the Scorpion and the Frog, Part 2

**Wednesday, March 23rd, 2011**

It was not a good day.

Tedious, in point of fact. Sherlock supposed he'd better entertain himself. John was out buying groceries. Probably just as well.

Sherlock had scarcely glanced at the client since Mrs. Hudson had let him in, her eyes round at the odd dress the man was costumed in.

_Costume,_ thought Sherlock, _being the key here._ He sat in his chair, eyes half-lidded as the client postured by the fireplace, stepping back and forth and gesticulating. His accent had the cadences of a native from the Indian sub-continent, but if he'd really wanted to convince Sherlock that he hailed from Jharkhand state, he ought to have avoided using the open-mid front unrounded vowel sounds of a person from North India. He sighed inwardly.

"Will you take the case, Mr. Holmes?" asked the impostor.

"No," said Sherlock.

"Why not?" demanded the swathed figure. "The Jharia diamond rightly belongs to my people! Our heritage has been stolen! We must have justice! If -"

"Enough," said Sherlock. "I am not about to waste my time on an overblown actor who wishes to use my services - not to find a fabled diamond, but gain access to certain papers and photos pertaining to his adulterous affairs kept under lock and key by his wife. You wish to employ me as some kind of dupe. You are wasting my time; the door is just behind you."

There was a charged silence. Dark eyes glared at Sherlock from over the striped scarf swathing the man's lower face.

"Explain yourself, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock raised a brow. _Oh, very good. Bait taken._ "If you insist. Shall we start with your clothes? The turban is only a cap with a long piece attached and wound 'round a few times. The kurta and churidar - not obviously wrong but the textile of the waist wrapping is more Indonesian than Indian." He stood and moved closer, noting the man's clenched hands and tense shoulders. "And what do you call this?" He flapped a hand at the man's sleeveless over-robe.

"You tell me."

"Well, a Bedouin aba made with Indian Khadi cotton? All wrong." He wrinkled his nose. "Coupled with the dark contact lenses and the high quality reproduction Talwar sabre hidden under that loose outer robe? Obvious." Feigning disinterest, he made his way into the kitchen to fill the kettle and plug it in.

The actor followed him, blustering in his faux accent. "What do you mean, obvious! What's obvious? I was told, I was assured by certain people that you were the best -"

Sherlock turned back, hands shoved into pockets. "I am the best. You want to know why I won't take your case? Fine. First, there's your sword."

"What of it, it has been in my family for generations!"

"Been in a prop department, more like. Curved blades over fifty centimetres are prohibited by law, except in certain cases, such as in private collections - or theatrical productions. You are wearing a colourful but inaccurate Indian costume. You are trying to pass yourself off as a Sikh warrior from a state where Sikhs make up a mere three percent of the population. You are utterly failing at both dressing and acting the part. Insulting, really."

"I am no actor!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That much is true. Be that as it may, you scowled at my old copy of The Sun when you entered, which happens to depict a certain woman rumoured to keep company with an actor who has a wandering eye. Said actor has a wife that celebrity gossip sites claim is in the process of filing for divorce while she 'stays with friends.' Considering the aforementioned actor's last two productions were financial and artistic flops, this man stands to lose his vaunted lifestyle. In short, I find your little attempt at deception distasteful and your presence tedious, Mr. James Ashton."

With a certain satisfaction Sherlock watched the tell-tale signs of fury stiffening the man's body, the way the man's head dropped lower as though preparing to charge. Perfect. "It's not a surprise your career is on a downward spiral if this is representative of your talent - I received a much more convincing plea just this morning in an email from a certain Nigerian oil company. Congratulate me, Mr. Ashton - I am due to receive 47 million U.S. dollars."

Sherlock rolled out the last phrase with a certain relish. The temptation to practice disarming a foe was irresistible. He'd have a nice go-round with the tiresome Mr. Ashton and clear him off before John returned. He smiled at the enraged man, and the tipping point was reached.

Mr. James Ashton did not disappoint. The tussle was brief but satisfying, though Ashton's theatrical combat training tempered any actual murderous threat. An uppercut, and the actor was down. Satisfied, Sherlock watched the ersatz Indian slide boneless to the floor. Well. Time to remove the rubbish. The bins behind Speedy's were due to be emptied. He'd need to use the back door, which meant there was only one thing to be done. Sherlock rubbed his knuckles and sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Wrestling the limp man down the stairs and out the back door of 221A was a chore. Sherlock swiped at his forehead as he and his landlady looked at the groaning man lying amongst the bins.

"Is that James Ashton?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Sherlock nodded and she made a moue of disgust. "I heard he's having a fling with that young thing from that music band." She sniffed. "No wonder his wife is leaving him. He'd have been better off just confessing the whole to his wife. He's handsome enough to get away with it if he would just beg forgiveness."

Sherlock's mouth twisted slightly at her words. "Yes," he replied in a low tone.

Mrs. Hudson patted his sleeve. "No matter, dear. We don't want his type hanging around here. Though..." She brightened and smiled. "Sherlock, would you be a dear and use your phone to take a photo? I'd love to send it to Mrs. Turner, she reads all the gossip papers."

Sherlock grinned and squeezed her shoulders. "Anything you like, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

It was not a good day.

'Card not authorised. Please use an alternative method of payment.'

_Great. Just great._

The idiot machine warbled. John gave up. This, on top of everything else - job hunt stalled, dwindling finances, no girlfriend. Not even any dates; his lips tightened at the thought.

'Card not authorised...'

"Yes, all right!" he snapped. Someone sighed behind him. Right. That was it, he'd had quite enough.

The other shoppers watched with expression that varied between amusement and relief as he marched from the store. Bested by a supermarket chip and pin machine - and he'd invaded Afghanistan. His strides were brisk, shoes hitting the pavement hard enough to jar his body. An elderly lady dragged her Yorkie out of his path as though afraid he would punt the shivering thing. John snorted and slowed.

He ought to see the humour in it - a shouting match with an automaton that only told him the hard truth: his card would not work because he was skint. He yelled, it didn't listen and in return told him he was doing everything wrong. Bit like dealing with Sherlock. John's brows drew together.

_I AM an idiot,_ he thought. _Everyone thinks Sherlock's the mad one, but I'm the one touched in the head. What am I doing?_

The strange misery of his life, the ache of Sherlock's apparent indifference, and John's frustration welled up again. He turned the key in the lock of 221 so hard his fingers slipped off. He grunted and rubbed his stinging forefinger.

Not a good day.

* * *

_John is not going to be best pleased at the worse-than-usual state of the flat._ As Sherlock thanked Mrs. Hudson for her help and climbed the stairs, his lips pressed together, considering the problem of John.

John the anomaly. John was not behaving in predicted patterns. Irony of ironies - after all, Sherlock had shouted at the police often enough about the folly of making assumptions. Yet here he was, and John was the one who had put him there, all bland expression, squashy jumpers and wry smiles... _Stop._ Sherlock had done and was still doing what he'd promised himself.

/ let him know that you recognise him / show him who you are / OBSERVE / John must choose to acknowledge their previous connection / _All else must follow from that /_ John must decide the course of their association /

Idiot. What kind of moron makes a promise like that? Sherlock grimly shoved the kitchen table into position. And what kind of being was John that he had not yet, despite all provocation, turned to Sherlock and said, "Game's up, Hugh. I knew all along. Now, explain yourself." It was unnatural. Curiosity alone should have precipitated an interrogation on John's part.

_Assistant. Flatmate. Friend._ Preoccupied, Sherlock restored the items that had been knocked askew on the table back to their original positions. He knew that beyond their first contact via phone, John and he had forged a friendship. The real problem was that he, Sherlock Holmes, was never satisfied. That dark addictive part of him had found a thing that satisfied something within him, and now he wanted more, needed it all. Wanted to drink John down, all the depths of him. _Stop it,_ he warned himself. _Not productive of anything._

He shoved a kitchen chair back in its place and stalked into the living room, pulling the sofa away from the wall. Hmm. Dent in the plaster. Hopefully John wouldn't see, he'd been quite exercised over the acid and worktop incident.

Hadn't Sherlock done everything right? Wasn't he including John in his work? They were partners, they meshed perfectly! John's walking stick was gathering dust in the corner; he had fewer nightmares. And then there were the other times between cases and police consultations - the jokes, the ridiculous way John pecked at his laptop as though afraid the keys would nip his finger tips. Sherlock had even learned to tolerate the rubbish telly programs John liked.

It was perfect. John was matchless. Sherlock could do this, he would -

_-What will happen when sheryl_28 finally tells her flatmate she's had a crush after all this time? He'll run - like, five hundred miles LOL-_

Sherlock nipped off that line of thought. No time to think of that misbegotten website. Where was John? It never took him more than thirty five minutes to do the shopping, he should have been back. _I should text him._

_Stop._ Was he really considering texting John just to find his location? It was absurd. No, _he_ was absurd.

He dragged his chair back into its usual position and kicked the sabre underneath, dropping into the sagging leather with a thump. Scrubbing his face, he groaned. The situation was untenable. How had it come to this? Something had to give, this couldn't go on. John must do something or Sherlock would go mad.

A clunk at the front door had Sherlock scrabbling for a book and slouching back in a position of assumed ease as John stepped in, irritation radiating like waves of heat. Perhaps it was ill-advised, but Sherlock couldn't help commenting, "You took your time."

"I didn't get the shopping," said John.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock's brows drew together.

Like an blow torch to powdered magnesium, the question lit John's temper. _Fast-burning and bright. Spectacular while it lasts._ Sherlock took care to smooth his expression out whilst listening to John's tirade against chip-and-pin machines and offered a conciliatory sop. "Take my card." Endearing, the way John's face scrunched up and his ears reddened when he shouted. But if John's card wasn't working... Sherlock's mind began to turn over the problem.

John began to move towards the kitchen but turned back, irate. "You know, you could always go yourself!"

Sherlock ignored the irrelevancy, the small issue tumbling through his mind like a pebble in a stream.

_/ John / requires food / card problem / worried / so tedious / my card has money / just take it /_

He was only peripherally aware as John rubbed a finger over the scratch in the table and shot him an accusing look before exiting on a heavy exhalation. _More damage we can't afford to pay, Sherlock!_ the sigh said.

Money.

Sherlock slouched deeper in his chair. How the banality of monetary matters bored him. But if John was bothered, then Sherlock must be concerned as well. He now regretted disposing of the James Ashton infidelity case – it would have been a significant payment, particularly if he'd requested non-disclosure money. He had no compunction about making such a man disgorge extortionate fees. _Ah, well._

He slapped his hands on the arms of the chair and propelled himself up, stooping to snatch up the sword and shoving it behind a stack of books. He seated himself at the desk and flipped open John's laptop. Password circumvented, he opened a browser, hissing a breath of discontent. Looking for work. Hateful. No wonder John was so downcast these past few weeks.

Twelve minutes later he had the answer to John's monetary concerns. But he didn't like it.

"'How're things, buddy?'" he read aloud. "'Buddy.' Appalling semblance of casual acquaintance. 'Been a long time.'" He pressed his finger tips together and half-closed his eyes, quashing his reaction. Not long enough.

* * *

John thumped up the stairs, still in a strop. It was small-minded to be irritated with Sherlock merely because his card worked in the chip-and-pin machine and John's didn't - but the whole thing made him feel useless. Flatmate? More like put-upon stay-at-home housewife. With no benefits. Not even a lie-back-and-think-of-England.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage," he said, testing how the phrase fitted his role. Too well, for his peace of mind. Sherlock didn't look 'round as he dumped the bags on the table. _Of course, never mind me, Sherlock._ Sherlock - who had hijacked his laptop. Again.

"Is that my computer?" he asked, hating himself for stating the obvious even as he did so. Sherlock answered without looking 'round, long fingers flying over the keyboard. John's jaw clamped, hearing the unspoken subtext in a smooth baritone even as Sherlock insulted his password choice. _I needed a computer, yours was closest, is this not self evident? Don't be simple, John._

_Hell with that,_ John thought. He reached over to take his laptop back, nearly catching Sherlock's fingers as he snapped the lid down. Petty, but he was not in the mood. Sherlock only folded his hands together, ignoring the reclamation of the laptop. _Fine, be like that._

John fell back into his favoured chair. With a sigh, he picked the mail. Bills, some of them overdue. He was uncomfortably aware that he was getting behind with his share of the rent. And the groceries. And the other day-to-day expenses of living in London. "I've got to get a job," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. Sherlock responded with his usual sniff of disdain.

John looked at Sherlock from beneath lowered brows. _This fucking day._ He felt the dark yawning of some pit inside - anger? No, humiliation. _Bloody Sherlock with his bloody posh suits, what did he have to worry about?_ John was never more aware of the differences between them as he screwed himself up to ask, "Listen, um... if you'd be able to lend me some... " He paused, the word getting stuck in his throat. Sherlock was statue-still, eyes distant. _Could this be any worse?_ "Sherlock, you listening?"

Sherlock's head lifted. "I need to go to the bank."

John blinked as Sherlock grabbed his coat from the door and flung it on. Realisation struck and he leapt up to get his own jacket. Oh, thank God for mind-reading genius flatmates. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to ask Sherlock again. Just a loan until he was able to get some kind of position, that's all he needed. Puzzled, he followed Sherlock into the Tube station.

"Sherlock, isn't your bank just around the corner?"

Sherlock handed John his spare Oyster card. "Not the bank we need."

* * *

Bishopsgate, Tower 42? John might have known better.

He looked about as Sherlock led the way into the gleaming glass and metal structure, neck muscles tightening. Go to the bank? Ha. John felt out of place here in his jeans amongst the sharp suits and hard-faced traders. Damned if he'd let it show, though. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. Sherlock looked more the thing in his long coat. _Of course he does,_ thought John. If he wasn't such a misanthrope, Sherlock would fit right in.

_I hope a small loan of money makes an appearance soon,_ John thought. And then he could make his escape back to the shabby comfort of Baker Street. He set his teeth as a personal assistant guided them through the anthill of financial activity to a large private office. John glanced at the door plate.

Oh, grand. They were only meeting the Director of the Trading Floor. Bad enough John had swallowed his pride to ask for money. _Not that Sherlock had dignified it with a spoken response._ But this place? John would have loved a moment just to tuck his shirt in in order to look presentable. Bloody typical of Sherlock to just walk out, expecting John to follow.

_Be fair, John. It's not Sherlock's fault you've been sucked into his wake again._

_But what are we doing here, really?_

* * *

_Damn Sebastian._ Sherlock refused to call him by his old familiar nickname. Any other day and he would have deleted the email without a second thought.

_/ high likelihood of Sebastian using position::history::clout in attempt at intimidation / futile / defense?/ John / solve the case / accept the money / John has the moral satisfaction of money for work / I have satisfaction of confounding Sebastian's expectations /_

Sherlock cast a quick glance at John. At least he had a friend with him. Satisfied, Sherlock gave his name to the receptionist. With John at his side, something that was jangling within him was calmed. Prosaic, sensible John was a touchstone, grounding Sherlock in this horrible place full of the blind worship of empty numbers.

As they waited, Sherlock was conscious of a sense of gratitude that John wasn't distracting him with questions. Bad enough they had to meet Sebastian under these circumstances at all. _Unpleasant, having John ask him for money. Must be more aware of finances in the future.  
_

And then there was Sebastian. Sherlock held himself erect, arms folded behind in studied nonchalance with his back to the door.

_Be polite. You are here for John, and with John._ Yet he still felt the curl of distaste in his belly as he turned and greeted Sebastian Wilkes with a handshake. Eight years, nine months, and twenty three days it had been since their last encounter.

Sebastian looked much the same, he noted. Floppy hair, well-groomed _(electric razor)_ , fit _(personal trainer but infrequent sessions)_ , expensively clothed _(hm, new watch)._ Sherlock's lips stretched in a rictus. _Observe: the sartorial splendour of the cochliomyia hominivorax larva._

In his peripheral vision, he could see John's eyes going back and forth between Sebastian and himself, his expressive mouth flattening out.

Seb smiled broadly, grasping Sherlock's wrist with his left as they shook hands. The familiar possessive touch was unpleasant in its associations. "How's it going, buddy?" Sebastian asked, all affability. Sherlock's expression became mask like.

_/ again with the 'buddy!' / we fucked / said I had no proper emotions / understand nothing / know this /_

"This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock said with deliberation. _You are a maggot next to him, do you see this? John Watson is with me. Your past assertions have been proven wrong._

* * *

Sidelined, John watched. Sherlock was oddly effusive in his greeting to the trader. Old boy network. Some kind of business meeting then. Christ. Why had Sherlock let him come along? This was not his area, not at all. Then Sherlock drew the man's attention to John, and introduced him.

"This is my friend. John Watson."

_Oh, God,_ thought John. _No. Don't say that, not in front of this man, for God's sake!_ Sebastian's brows lifted and his mouth twitched as he looked sidelong at John.

_Fuck._

"Colleague," asserted John, and then tried to cover his brusqueness with a smile. Oh God. He'd just made it worse. _Damn it, Sherlock!_ he thought. _No one brings their 'friend' to business meetings! God, what he must be thinking..._ But the damage was done as Sebastian shook John's hand and gave Sherlock a disbelieving smirk. John felt ill. He cast Sherlock a quick fulminating glance as they seated themselves.

Perfect. He, Doctor John H. Watson, was an assistant when they were at crime scenes. At Baker street he was a jobless errand boy sponging off his flat-mate. And in the priciest real estate in London, he was the tag-along friend - or whatever - when they were meeting executives wearing ties that would probably cost the equivalent of one of his pension cheques. He was an embarrassment. The back of John's neck felt hot. _Thank you. Thank you so much, Sherlock, for letting me know how important I am. I know your work means everything to you, and I thought I was part of that._

And now John had just been demoted in front of Sherlock's FTSE 100 associate to 'friend.'

* * *

_Colleague._ Sherlock's mind froze for a minuscule amount of time, long enough to set his thoughts skittering and sliding. John had corrected him. John said he was a colleague. Yes, of course he assisted Sherlock, but that wasn't all it was. Was it? He tried wrench his mind back.

_/ colleague / irrelevant / there's a case / old lover-enemy / John's not - / terminate /_

As was his wont, Sherlock withdrew - he pulled the old familiar scarred armour on and began to do what he did best. He felt the cold creep up and over his thoughts, tamping down the roil within. In a biting tone he began to draw conclusions about Sebastian's recent travels. He felt John's questioning look, but Sherlock kept his face turned away, expression hidden.

However, Sebastian was well up for the direct attack and came back with his own riposte. He threw John a sly glance, speaking in a confiding tone as though Sherlock weren't right there.

"We hated him. You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know who you'd been shagging the previous night."

_Ah, Sebastian._ Still able to find those ancient cracks in his defences and prise them open. Sherlock felt the shaft strike home and shifted tactics. Retreat - but only for a moment as Sebastian smiled and smiled and mocked him in front of John.

Sherlock's gaze dropped away. As Sebastian returned fire with derisive comments about ketchup and mud, Sherlock saw John bite the inside of his cheek and turn away - but not enough to hide his small smile.

Sebastian's smile was predator-white as he watched Sherlock, waiting for the storm to break.

Sherlock drew a shallow breath. "I was chatting to your secretary outside," he said. It was almost worth conceding the skirmish to see the derision slide from Sebastian's face. John's brows drew together. _Prevaricate._ It didn't matter any more what Sebastian thought of him. _Or John._ Why was he here?

A case. That was the reason, all else was chaff. _Just get through this._ Sherlock didn't need the money but now he was committed. His life was the work.

Sebastian looked uncertain for a moment, then roared with laughter. Sherlock flicked a smile so patently false that John again looked uncertain. _Confused, John? Unsurprising._ Sherlock drew the mental shutters down more firmly. Focus. Finish this.

* * *

In the unused office, John stood back with arms crossed as Sherlock examined a portrait of a portly business man that was much improved by a surrealist streak of yellow spray over the eyes. So - they were here on a case. A locked room mystery of security and vandalism. So much for his hopes of a loan. There was some strange undercurrent between Sebastian and Sherlock.

John had been startled when Sherlock had lied about his deductions. Normally the detective would take pleasure in battering down his victim with 'obvious facts.' Sherlock's reaction was out of character, and thus unsettling. John regretted his brief satisfaction at how Sebastian had done the unthinkable and taken Sherlock down a peg.

Sherlock was intent on the strange graffiti, ignoring his companions. Sebastian watched Sherlock, and John watched Sebastian. Odd, Sebastian's expression. Smug. There was something... what was it? John's mind began to click over, remembering a conversation from a few months back. About people who called Sherlock a freak. Heartless and cold. About 'Hugh's' university lover, some prat called...

"Seb," murmured John. The man himself spared him a glance before herding Sherlock towards the front desk. John trailed in their wake, listening with half-attention.

..

_(-I don't do relationships._

_-Must have been one hell of a break-up._

_-It was a long time ago. It's not important.)_

_..  
_

_Of course it wasn't,_ John thought. Sebastian held out a pre-printed cheque. Sherlock's face grew cold; he made no move to touch it.

_Right._ John's chin went up. This was meant to be work, not a favour for an old university mate using his school connections. But taking that cheque, produced so negligently from someone of Sebastian Wilkes' ilk? _No._ John understood about bullies and their petty tyrannies. This was Sherlock's work, but it was also Sebastian scoring off his ex-boyfriend by making him a subordinate.

Principles. This worm had gotten to Sherlock, and was still getting at him. The thought sent a flicker of anger through John. Well, he could still pay. John watched until Sherlock's dark form was well away and turned to Sebastian without his most innocent look. He could do this for Sherlock, at least.

He nipped the cheque away from the distracted Sebastian and sucked in a theatrical breath at the number of zeroes. Sebastian raised a brow and John employed a meaningless smile.

_Think what you like. Sherlock will solve your mystery and show you up as the fat-headed prat you are. He won't take the money from the likes of you, but I will. For him. Fuck you very much._

Somehow failing to say good bye, he followed Sherlock.

* * *

As they left Shad Sanderson, Sherlock made sure he kept a stride ahead of John. A wintry smile crossed his face as John asked about Sebastian's watch. Well, that was something - John still thought his observations were clever. But he still felt the prick of John's casual correction.

_Colleague._

Of course John assisted him with the work, it was one of the things that made him perfect. Sherlock's lifestyle was not for the faint of heart, and John fit into it. He wanted John with him, had taken on this hideous job for John. Well, on that head, at least John had the money he needed now.

Was that not what friends did, helped each other?

He threw a look over his shoulder. John was keeping pace, as always. _John. Must at least maintain the status quo._ But how? He was stymied. The more Sherlock involved him with the work, the more it felt John was slipping away somehow. Horrible to think that the dating-site denizens were right. How could he admit that he was Hugh, after all this time? Sherlock pictured John's angry face - no, worse. John's blank face as he shut down his reactions, pulled away, further and further, horribly polite as he told Sherlock he'd be moving out of Baker Street as soon as he could find a suitable place.

But maintaining this façade between them was wearing, Sherlock could feel the thin spots in his shields. If they broke... That wouldn't happen. He couldn't let it, he'd promised. For the time being there was this tedious case, and the absent Van Coon to question. _Hardly worth my while._ Sherlock called for a taxi and they both got in.

Silence hung thick as they rode, broken only by the click of keys on Sherlock's mobile. He felt John's gaze upon him and exhaled.

"You have more questions."

"You've known him for eight years? Old friend?" John's tone was tentative.

_Eight years, two hundred ninety four days and far too long._ "I was acquainted with him at uni. Lacking evidence to the contrary, I assume he managed to continue to exist in the absence of my attention since that time, yes. Obviously." He thrust his mobile back into a pocket, not meeting John's eyes. "I wouldn't say I know him."

"Oh." A pause. "All right then. Guess that's why you didn't seem too keen to see him again."

..

_(-Oh come on, Sherlock. Don't be like that. It's not like you've any feelings to hurt. Can you blame_ _me?)_

_..  
_

"Do you really think he's the kind of person I would stay in touch with?" Sherlock wished the words back as soon as they left his lips. That had come out less caustic than he'd wanted.

John gave a short laugh. "Well, if one went by appearances, you seem to be one of his kind."

_John, if only you knew. Or do you?_ "Is this one of your keen observations, then? That Sebastian and I have the superficial appearance of being -"

"Good background. Posh suits. Public school accent. And you both part your hair the same way."

Sherlock immediately resolved to get a haircut. "Well done you."

"But there was at least one difference."

"Just one?"

"You might be unbearable sometimes, but he's a complete wanker," said John, and it was Sherlock's turn to give a real smile.

"That talk about shagging at the breakfast table," John continued. "Nice story. Must have quite a history. Not any of my business, can't think why he wanted to bring it up except to embarrass you in front of me."

_History._ Yes. Sherlock's eyes flickered. Some things too pernicious to be erased, etched like acid into metal and badly covered since then. He despised the memory, hated that younger, softer version of himself and its flawed defenses. Always a mistake to care.

..

_(-You fucking idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?_

_-You're upset, Seb? Shouldn't I be the one angry, being the wronged party here?_

_-You didn't have to announce to the entire year that I'd been at Clive's last night!_

_-The stubble abrasions and contusions not entirely covered by the neck of your shirt made it obvious. And if I may correct your erroneous declaration, it wasn't last night. Not only last night. Or the week before. Or only Clive._

_-So? And what about it?_

_-I'd say you were a fool, then. First, for thinking I wouldn't notice, not that you took much effort in hiding it. I suppose I may take from that circumstance your true opinion of me. Second, that I would put up with it for the pleasure of your company. Did you really think I had no self-respect?_

_-You. You think I'm the stupid one? Let me tell you something, Sherlock -_

_-Go on, enlighten me, Seb._

_-If you thought that announcing that I fucked around - that I cheated on you is going to make anyone think less of me, much less take your side, you are wrong! They are laughing at you, do you understand that? Can you get that into your thick head? We can't stand you!_

_-...  
_

_-Say something, you twat! Don't just sit there with that face! You don't even care, do you. You're not capable of real feelings, you are a fucking inhuman robot! And no one else could or ever will stomach you, you freak._

_-That's not true._

_-We're finished. Maybe one day if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a call. You're a good shag, for a freak. It's why I put up with you for so long.)_

_..  
_

"It didn't embarrass me. I would have to care for the opinions of others in order for that to happen." _Trying not have an interest in what you think, John. Failing._ Sherlock twitched up the collar of his coat, then forced his hands to be still on his legs when he saw John taking in the nervous movement.

"Yes. I can see that," John said, turning his face away again. "Should I break his kneecaps for you, then? Or would he ask for the cheque back?"

Sherlock stared. Was that a joke? Would he ever understand this John? "Tempting. But no." _'Colleagues' don't attack clients._ He tuned out the inner voice telling him to consider the reasons John might make such an offer. _John understood too much._ "Not worth the trouble."

John chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. Might be worth giving up five figures."

At that an irrational swell of fury rose within Sherlock. _It would have been beyond price, he thought, not to have been put in the position of taking money from Sebastian Wilkes._ Never mind that it wasn't John's fault for being jobless. Or that John had his oh-so-ordinary need for regular amounts of sustenance. Or that before John entered his life, Sherlock wouldn't have even been bothered about money, but now he _was_ , because _John_ was. And it was just one more piece of detritus grinding in the wheels of his mind right now, spinning and sparking and it was _intolerable._

Now Sherlock was having trouble deleting the sweat-hot remembrance of Sebastian's hand cuffing his wrist _(let go / holding too long),_ the scent of Sebastian's coffee on his breath overlain with mouthwash as he leaned in towards Sherlock _(close / too close / revolting /)_. The jackal-sharp smirk as his ex-lover looked John over and the sour taste in Sherlock's throat as John denied being anything more than his assistant.

He rapped on the glass. "Here, driver." He got out and shut the door before John could give more than a startled bleat about the fare.

* * *

John's ears burned as he used Sherlock's card to pay the cab driver. So much for empathy. He'd tried, really he had.

Within a few minutes Sherlock had engineered their entry into the building and dropped on to Van Coon's balcony from the apartment above. As John stood outside the door, he wondered why he even bothered. "Sherlock? You okay?" Left out like a unwanted dog. Again.

"Any time you feel like letting me in!"

John grimaced at his words. Sherlock never let him in, in any sense of the phrase. He raised his hand to press the buzzer again when Sherlock opened the door, his face impassive. John glared. "What did I say about running off?"

Sherlock only nodded over his shoulder. "Come on." John followed him through the bland flat to the bedroom. At the sight of the man, John's anger drained away, leaving only vague pity. _Poor bastard._ One would think wealth and a pricey suit would save one from the demons within. John knew better. Van Coon stared sightlessly, looking vulnerable with his hands turned up on the bed covers. Drops of blood shone like dark glass beads at the man's temple, the only colour in this room of bland tones.

It was all too familiar. John knew this place. He swallowed. _Could have been me, once. Nearly was._ He looked at Sherlock. _Not any more._ "Did you call Lestrade?"

"Yes. The police will be here shortly. Don't disturb anything, we have some time." Sherlock was already moving, magnifying glass clicking open as he bent over the bed. "Gloves?"

"Last pair we have." John reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small plastic packet, ripping it open and holding them at the ready.

"Make doubly sure you don't touch anything, then."

"Shall I add them to the shopping list?"

"Yes." Sherlock was sniffing at the man's face. The magnifier was snapped closed and he flapped a hand at John, who passed over the gloves. John blinked hard as a wave of displacement washed over him.

"How is this my life?" he wondered aloud.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and flashed a brief mad smile. "Isn't it brilliant?" he said.

_It's a measurement of how screwed up my life is,_ John thought even as he marveled at the brilliance of that smile, _that I can't tell if Sherlock is answering the question or making a comment about the fresh body._ He scrubbed his face and sighed. Either way, one thing was clear - the simple case of the vandalised banker had just become Sherlock's number one priority.

Resignation with a dash of self pity washed away the rebellious flame of attraction. _And everything else, including my life, is put on hold._ Sherlock called his name, and he turned back to the work.

* * *

Riding high on the cocktail of his confrontation with D.I. Dimmock _(how Scotland Yard's standards have fallen!),_ vindication and an interesting murder, Sherlock rather enjoyed embarrassing Sebastian at his business lunch. Discomfitted, Sebastian excused himself from the table. Sherlock was aware of the eyes following them as Sebastian led the way to the Gent's, and a manic grin spread across his face. Tit-for-tat for lunch? A meal to be savoured.

He started as John touched his elbow.

"You're overdoing it again, Sherlock," said John sotto voce. "I mean, I'm here for a reason, right? Let me do the talking." He dropped his hand, but the pressure of John's fingers seemed to linger.

Sherlock dipped his chin and John exhaled. In relief? But John was right. Sebastian's presence ruined his equilibrium. Obviously he needed to work harder on maintaining an emotional distance - it wasn't good for his mental processes. John was good at talking to people.

Sebastian held open the door to the toilets and John led the way within.

* * *

In the taxi back to Baker Street, John looked out the window at the darkening sky, jaw clenched. Sherlock had managed to curl up tight enough to get his shoes on the seat despite the cabby's protests, and was staring straight ahead in one of his thinking poses, arms wound around his shins. He hadn't uttered a word since Sebastian had shut him down with a sneer, "I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked."

John had tried, taking over the questioning - in part, to make up for his earlier bad mood. But knowing some of the history between Sebastian and Sherlock, he'd also wanted to be the colleague he'd claimed to be. No, that wasn't quite it. He'd tried to be a friend, and keep Sherlock from having to deal with the slimy Seb. For all the good it had done.

When Sebastian had got that text from his chairman and dismissed all of Sherlock's conclusions, Sherlock had tried to argue. The tone of Sherlock's voice, uttering "Seb...!" like an angry child that couldn't understand why others didn't believe him, had made John's hands tighten into fists.

John looked over at his flatmate and grimaced. So many taxi rides they'd had since that first one together, when Sherlock had surprised him and he'd challenged Sherlock in return. It seemed so long ago, that night when John had begun this ridiculous game of 'strangers meeting for the first time.'

The tight curl of Sherlock's body indicated more sulking then hurt, but John knew. He knew the Sherlock of old, 'Hugh' had told him enough details, and right now John was rigid with repressing the need to just... what? Touch Sherlock's shoulder. Grasp his wrist where the repellent man had touched him and reassure him somehow. _Sherlock doesn't want that, doesn't want you like that._ Fuck it. Fuck it, this had to stop sometime, Sherlock had to say something.

"Sherlock."

No response, other than a tightening of Sherlock's face. John cleared his throat and tried again. "Sherlock, that business between you and Sebastian. I -"

"I'll thank you not to mention his name again, John. As you heard, I have work to do, and I won't be distracted with your pointless maundering on matters which are utterly irrelevant to the case." The tone was brittle.

John swallowed back the rest of his words - _I know all about it, I think I know what you must be feeling, you told me the story once, Sherlock. Hugh._ "Right. Sorry. I'll just let you... I'll just let you work, then." He leaned forward and rapped sharply on the divider. "Here, pull over."

Sherlock's legs thumped down. "John." The taxi pulled over and John was out, fastening his coat against the breeze. "John, what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" John's face felt so stiff that the smile felt as though it were cracking it. "I'm getting out. I'll just... look, here's your card. I need to get out. That's all."

Something flickered over Sherlock's expression. He made no move to take the proffered card. "I'll see you back at the flat." The tone was almost a question. Almost. John's eyes closed a moment, before he nodded.

But Sherlock was sequestered in his bedroom when John came in chilled and hungry from his long walk, and the flat was silent. And anyway, what was there to say? Nothing. What could John do? Hammer on that door, shout through it that Hardwin wanted to talk? Drag the stubborn arse from his room, press him down on that sofa and give in to the urge to taste the curve of that pink upper lip? Chase after him from crime scene to crime scene, just an acolyte blindly devoted the foremost priest of the The Work? Impossible.

John plonked a handful of spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water and gave them a quick stir. Sighing, he rubbed the heel of his hand over the aching scar in his shoulder, then over his breastbone. No. He wasn't going to lose himself. He was his own person, damn it, and he still had his pride. _And Sherlock isn't interested anyway._

There was an ache beneath the bone his fingers pressed, a sense of being stretched so tight that the least thing would snap him, that a limit had been reached.

_No more. I can't. I stop here._

Whatever his life was, however it had improved, this thing between Sherlock and himself was not good. John tried to recall what normal life was, this healthy Utopian thing that his therapist told him he was meant to achieve, and choked a small laugh. Would he even recognise it if he saw it?

In the dim living room he sat alone at the desk, dinner plate and face lit by the glow cast by his opened laptop. Looking blankly at the blinking cursor on his blog, he began to eat. _Have to try._

And so, the next morning, when the bright-eyed woman that sat across from him in a slightly dingy surgery office smiled at him _(me!)_ in spite of his weak jests and offered him a part-time position _(money, a job, independence oh thank god)_ he smiled back.

"Looking forward to it," said Sarah.

"Thank you," said John, holding her hand a fraction too long. "I really appreciate this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wish I could say that there were good reasons for the long delay, but really, excuses never sound good. The Blind Banker was kicking my ass, I needed lots and lots of time to sort motivations and character's heads out! That's about it. Sometimes inspiration flows. Sometimes it has the consistency of molasses in seb-zero weather.  
> I thought I'd get the Blind Banker (and the story) done with in two more chapters. That's what I said, did I not?  
> It is to laugh! Hopefully I'll get the Blind Banker done in the next chapter, AND then denouement, and we all know what that means in fics. Yes. With extra helpings of epilogue, I think.
> 
> Slow burn is very slow. I apologize. And I have not quite done make them suffer, but in fic-time they have only five more days of angst, because that is the length of time covered in TBB. It should be enough.  
> Sorry again for the lack of speed!


	39. Scorpionis et Ranae, or The Scorpion and the Frog - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for missed connections and mirror dances - moving the same direction yet still not touching.

Upon reaching Baker Street alone, Sherlock hung his coat behind the door, folding the scarf with origami precision and tucking it into a pocket.

- _Hired you to do a job._ Unpleasant memory. Delete.

Carefully he uncurled his hands from the fists they had made.

- _Let me do the talking._

Scrubbing at his arm, Sherlock turned and began to walk with measured steps. Living room to kitchen.

- _John Watson, my friend. -Colleague._

Kitchen to living room he strode, pace picking up. Damn Sebastian and his unerring instinct for where to inflict the most damage. Damn John for destroying his equilibrium.

John had got out of the taxi. He'd _left,_ because Sherlock had opened his mouth to let the splintering cold inside him cut at John.

_Stupid!_ he berated himself. Sebastian had been predictably venomous. He'd seized an opportunity to humiliate his former lover in front of his friend-colleague. _Not important._

John, always so full of surprises. An unpleasant one today. Sherlock hadn't seen that coming, that curve of John's lips at his discomfiture.

Today Sherlock had gone in to Sebastian's office with a friend at his back. He'd come out with a colleague.

It shouldn't matter. It did.

John had left him. He paused. _John leaves all the time, you say something and he shouts and you reply and his voice goes tense and quiet and he leaves with that look on his face, the one that says he is leaving a battlefield to tend to the wounded. But he comes back, and there's telly and sometimes dinner and all is well._ Sherlock expelled a breath. _He comes back._

_-I'm getting out... need to get out,_ John had said.

What if one day John didn't come back?

There was a shooting pain behind his eyes. God, it had been so much easier before all this. Before John. His colleague-friend. His one-time lover in a non-biblical sense over a phone line. It hadn't been less complicated, no. But Sherlock wanted what they'd had three months ago - that affinity he'd never shared with another.

_What have I done?_

Relationships - too distracting. He needed _work._

A nicotine patch and several hours later, Sherlock was focused. He'd organized old notes, looked over some cold case files, texted furious complaints to Lestrade concerning Dimmock and updated his web site. Precariously, he perched himself bare-foot on the arm of the sofa, fingers steepled. Balance. Calm.

_Review._

He'd let John lead. He'd promised himself not to exert undue influence over John's choice of relationship. He'd tried to start again with a blank slate. But John apparently wanted to forget they'd ever spoken over a sex line. A line furrowed Sherlock's brow as he wobbled on the narrow perch. He dug his bare toes into the worn leather and blew a slow breath.

_Continue._

He shared living space and income with John, made him part of his work, tried in all ways to show how well they fit without pushing for more. John was his assistant. His friend.

_It's not enough_.

A vibration from his hip signalled a text. He shifted his weight and wiggled his phone free of his pocket. The sender was a line of numbers and letters. His nose wrinkled as he read.

 

**23/3/2011 21:09**

**Trouble in paradise?**

 

Another alert.  
  


**23/3/2011 21:10  
He's on his way.  
You must take better care  
of the doctor.**   
  


Sherlock's fingers flew as he stabbed his reply.  
  


**23/3/2011 21:10  
What, no digs about my flatmate?  
SH**

 

**23/3/2011 21:11  
You appear to work well together.  
Who am I to comment on how you  
handle your relationships?**   
  


**23/3/2011 21:11**  
 **Correct as always, Mycroft.**  
 **You are in** **no way** **qualified to comment.**

**SH**   
  


**23/3/2011 21:12**   
**I find I must commend you.**   
**Your restraint in the matter is truly admirable.**

**I misjudged your resolve.**   
  


Sherlock closed his eyes and swayed, clawing for some of that admirable restraint.  
  


**23/3/2011 21:14  
Do you have nothing better to do than  
indulge in your propensity for snooping?  
SH**

 

**23/3/2011 21:14**   
**That was mild. I was expecting more of your**   
**colourful usage of the English language.**

 

**23/3/2011 21:15**   
**To answer your question: I'm interested.**

**The Doctor continues to be noteworthy.**   
  


**23/3/2011 21:15**

**I had doubts concerning your oath to keep**   
**the burden of your past interactions from him.**   
**But it seems to have resolved itself.**

 

**23/3/2011 21:16  
It has. Spare me your concern.  
SH**   
  


**23/3/2011 21:16**   
**Barring a few incidents like today's.**   
**Happily he has never discovered the**   
**lengths you went to in order to arrange**   
**your meeting.**

**That would bode ill.**   
  


Sherlock hissed a breath. To say John would run five hundred miles would be understating the case. If John ever discovered how Sherlock had, well... the word 'stalker' had such unpleasant connotations.  
  


**23/3/2011 21:17  
I am gratified by your  
new-found altruism.**   
  


**23/3/2011 21:18**   
**My little brother is growing up.**

 

Sherlock muttered under his breath. Only Mycroft could reduce him to this helpless rage. Siblings were a blight. How to gain the upper hand?

 

**23/3/2011 21:18  
Thank you! :)**   
  


Last word achieved, Sherlock turned off his mobile and stuffed it back in his pocket, nearly slipping from his roost. Intolerable interruption. Why had he ever told Mycroft that misguided plan? But he'd been under pressure, so close to meeting John again. It had seemed the best course of action to take at the time. He'd sworn to let John choose. Instead, he'd played the puppeteer. John wouldn't understand, would take it badly. He would leave.

_You did it to yourself._

Sherlock sank his teeth into his bottom lip until it throbbed in descant to the inner monologue, _did it to yourself, did it to yourself._

_John was right. You are an idiot._

He pressed the tips of his fingers over his stinging lip, digging in.

_Continue._

He'd done all he could in the situation as he'd arranged it. In return he gained a colleague. Sherlock sniffed at the thought. _I have colleagues._ He had Scotland Yard and his network. He didn't want another. His mouth turned downward.

This stalemate had to end, yet he'd tied his own hands. Sherlock closed his eyes to better focus. Balance. Calm. He wanted that connection to John, the understanding they'd shared before **.**

How to bring about a desirable result? Regain that tenuous connection, keep John with him? He could practically hear the females of London Dating snickering, _'Drop a hint, pet!'_ Sherlock grimaced. How trite. Nevertheless. His mind spun, going over the well-worn grooves of every conversation 'Hardwin' had with 'Hugh.'

_There_. That conversation, so full of innuendo and music and how John had made him laugh when he'd described his orgasms as symbols on a slot machine spinning. And how Sherlock had described his own as a crescendo, and John compared it to -

He let himself fall backwards onto the sofa and rolled upright to stand in one motion. He picked up John's laptop and seated himself at the desk. Web browser. YouTube. His fingers flew. Ah, here it was - 'A Day in the Life.' He pressed play. Hm. Seemingly nonsensical lyrics with layers of metaphor, simple melody - what had John meant? His brows lifted as the song began to wind to its conclusion. _Oh_. Oh, that was... a surprisingly apt comparison.

There was a noise at the front door, and his head jerked up. _John._ No. No, not yet. He closed the browser.

Soundlessly he let himself into his room and closed the door with a click as uneven steps made their way up seventeen steps. Limping. Not a good sign.

Sherlock pressed his head against the wood of the door, eyes closed, listening. Something in him relaxed. _John is back._ He pictured him as he moved around, taking off his coat, heard the sigh as John took stock of the silence and Sherlock's closed door. It was better. Sherlock could tamp down the thoughts still flicking through his head, _/ Sebastian / friend / money / plan / bitterness / my own stupidity /_

_Quiet. John brings the quiet._

He didn't move, his forehead growing painful, then numb as John set pots on the stove. He heard the clatter of dishes, the thump as John sat and began eating. When John got up to shower, Sherlock slid down, and sat with his back to the door, head tilted back to better hear.

_John / unbuttoning / water / wet hair clumping on forehead / steam / scent of soap / rivulets / always takes long showers / enjoys luxury after Army life / skin pink from towelling dry / tooth brush clattering on porcelain / gurgle of water in old pipes /_

The bathroom door clicked open. Soft foot falls padded into the living room.

There was the scrape of a chair as John sat at the desk, and Sherlock imagined the scene. John's skin sticking slightly to the back of the chair, a drop of water making its way down his tanned neck. He heard the shuffle as John leaned forward to bring the computer back up. Sherlock pictured the towel wrapped around John's hips, the tuck loosening as he moved. He'd never seen John like that - warm, relaxed and bare. John was very circumspect.

Sherlock had no concerns about casual nudity, but it was telling that John wasn't comfortable around him, despite his time in Army. Only because there was a door between them did John feel the freedom to wander unclad.

John and his bland exterior, hiding so much. Sherlock ground his teeth briefly. John's torso would be uncovered, exposing the scar on his shoulder. _I've never seen it._ Sherlock pictured his fingers on it. Was the scar large and disfiguring? Would it indicate John's desperate fight for life? Or would it be surgically neat? Had the injury been through-and-through?

In his mind's eye, Sherlock stands in front of John, hand gliding up his arm to the mark. His thumb presses the raised flesh, his other hand travelling behind to press an exit would, mapping the trajectory through muscle and flesh. His lips brushing the skin, his tongue pressing and discovering the smooth flesh of the damage that had sent John home, displaced and fractured. _To me, for me, mine to have,_ said the dark voice within. _Stop. Enough. That's not the way, don't let the physical side distract._ Yet in spite of the override of his mind, his hand crept between his folded legs and pressed against a growing hardness. _I want._

Through the door he heard John hum in pleased surprise - an email? Blog comment? There was the sporadic tap of keys as John typed, then the chime as he powered the laptop down. Sherlock saw the tanned hands with their surprising deftness closing the lid, heard the creak of the chair as John stood, foot steps. Steps that stopped in front of Sherlock's bedroom door.

_/ open it / John / confront me / I can't / I won't / DO it / override / you can you CAN /_

Sherlock held his breath.

There was a brief scratch, as though John had rested his hand on the barrier between them and then dropped it away. A quiet sigh, a mere exhalation and Sherlock heard the steps as John left, moved away and went up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock's hands curled, clenched bone-white, nails digging into palms as he bent forward, resting his head against a knee, lips drawn back as of a man in extremis.

_Continue._

He forced his eyes open, seeing nothing. _Nothing happened. Nothing will ever happen. Time to push._

When he was sure John was in bed, he opened his door. In the darkness he picked up his violin, and began to play softly, humming the glottal stops and starts of the words to himself.

_'I read the news today, oh boy. About a lucky man who made the grade...'_

  
  


****

  
  


_-Two Dreams-_

 

_He turns over and looks at the figure limned in the light from the door._ The bedsit is dim, quiet. He makes an incoherent noise, questioning. No one ever comes here. It's all right. It's him.

'Did I wake you? I'm sorry.'

'No, no, it's fine,' he says. He sits up and knuckles his eyes. 'What is it?'

The figure drifts closer in a whisper of cloth and sits on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on the headboard.

'I have something to tell you. I've wanted to tell you for months.'

He blinks, a slow warmth filling his chest. 'Me too. You first, though.'

'You know, then.' A pause. 'We talked. On the phone sex line. All those months ago.'

'I remember.' He shakes his head, but smiles. 'It took you long enough. And you're here. Why now?'

The other face is near his, fine wisps of hair brushing skin. 'You have no idea what you did to me.'

His heart is hammering, he can hear the rising thrum of his pulse like the rising pitch of a violin, circling higher and higher. 'Nor you to me.' He waits a beat before he confesses. 'What you do to me.'

'I know. I'm sorry I made you wait.' The words come on a warm stir of breath. Their lips press together. The heavy weight of another body lies against his, comforting and somehow familiar. The strange peace of the moment envelopes him. He's content. _Finally._ His heartbeat hits a sustained crescendo and he sighs.

Floating, he hears the melodic pulse begin again.

 

****  
  


Rolling over, John woke enough to hear the soft strains of Sherlock's violin dying away. _I slept through that?_ he thought muzzily. Sounded familiar - what was that? He yawned and sat up. He needed a drink of water. His skin prickled with goosebumps from the chill in the flat.

Padding downstairs, he saw Sherlock draped boneless over the sofa. His bow lay discarded on the floor next to the violin in its case. Sherlock's face was relaxed in a way John rarely saw, the customary intensity smoothed away in slumber. John swallowed. Sherlock's chest rose and fell, pink lips parted on long exhalations. In this moment in the dark and quiet, all John's frustrations over the day before were washed away, and he could only swallow against the traitorous desire and affection that swelled in his chest.

_You silly sod,_ he thought, meaning both Sherlock and himself. He pulled the blanket from the back of his armchair and shook the folds loose. With careful hands he draped it over the slumbering form. He touched a wayward curl, the cool strands curving around his thumb, then retreated to the bathroom.

At the click of the door, Sherlock stirred, then curled further into the warmth of the blanket.

  
  


_****_

 

_He is cold, frozen in white light_. He might have known it would always be that way. Wasn't it meant to be different? He expected a brilliant reaction.

'Not always that way. You know the properties of magnesium well enough. Everyday common exposure...'

'Only tarnishes it. The longer the exposure, the thicker. I see.' There is a crust, white and calciferous around him.

'I did expect something different.'

'The reaction depends upon the agent introduced. Don't be simple, I know you're not.'

'No. What do you have in mind?'

'It depends on the results you are looking for.'

'Lucky you're here.'

'It is. I'm the only one who gets through to you.'

There is a scratching noise, and he stirs under the thick cold surrounding him. A hole - there, uncovering his vision and peeling away the white, but outside is the pressing darkness. He can see nothing. His throat tightens and he presses away from the blackness.

'No need for that.' A silhouette, intimation of movement - there. The dark figure tilts its head, matter-of-fact. 'You are a bright one, aren't you? All that's in you just shines out - it's blinding. You keep it hidden.'

He sucks in a breath. 'I'm... uneasy.'

'You mean afraid. You should be.' The voice is dark, now. Unhappy. 'See - this is how it can go.' The shape moves closer, figure outlined in the white glow. A spark flares in a palm full of white powder scrapings. The bright light that results is blinding, a supernova in the dark and he inhales. Beautiful. But within moments it burns away, leaving only after-images.

'Hot. Incandescent. Amazing.'

'Too fast. It was consumed too quickly.'

'Yes.'

There was a pause.

'What else is there? It has to be broken down.'

'There is another way. Not without risks. All could be lost.'

'I know.'

The shadow moves closer, eyes gleaming and moist.

'Is this what you want?' The voice has a thread of pain that tugs. He feels the pressure of arms around him but feels no warmth from that other.

'I can't feel you.'

'There's a price to pay for feeling..' The voice is sad, so sad.

A wet drop falls. Another. There is a bubbling gaseous hiss as it contacts the white casing around him, reacting. It begins to crumble. But it burns, it hurts! Another tear falls, accompanied by a low noise. He knows, _knows_ the other is suffering.

'Not that like that!' His own eyes are wet. The shell shudders and crackles, flakes dropping away, hydrogen bubbling. 'Don't, just leave me. Not worth it. Don't.'

'Only transport. Pain is short-lived. See? You're free of it.'

He shivers, exposed. The other holds him tighter but there is no comfort in the chill wetness of the face against his, the tremors that shake them both. 'I'm cold. I'm cold.'

'Not for long,' the shape promises, voice hoarse. 'We need the cold. If you want the last reaction. Do you -?'

He does. Salty lips find his and gravity shifts, pulls, currents of vapour swirling around them until they were pressed together, the elements of London, Baker Street, 221, the violin, a Sig Sauer making up the core, fused into a whole with the warmth of a sun at the centre. Their planet.

After some time he is aware of a glow against his eyelids. Morning. The dream frays and shreds apart completely, and he exhales before opening his eyes **.**

  
  


********

  
  


**Wednesday, March 24th**

The next morning found Sherlock at his computer, waiting. He watched from under his lashes as John came downstairs with a relaxed expression on his face and a bright, 'Morning, Sherlock.' Was he humming?

"Did you say something?"

"Good morning?" John's face was quizzical. Sherlock's lips pressed. Inconclusive result.

The click of the keyboard overlaid the sound of John grabbing a quick cup of tea. Sherlock decided to press on.

"Did you hear the news today?"

"Oh, boy," sighed John. "Why, is there something new on the Van Coon case?" His brow wrinkled a bit. "Funny, the way you said that just now. It reminded me of something." His voice trailed off, and Sherlock turned to him.

"Of what?"

John half-smiled. "Oh, nothing. Just a song. You wouldn't know it." His lips twisted. "Probably deleted it."

Sherlock lifted his chin. "Try me."

"'A Day in the Life?' The Beatles?"

"Yes, I know it." Sherlock's eyes scanned John. "It was memorably brought to my attention once." Nothing. No reaction, only the lift of John's brows and a bland expression.

"Well, there's a first, you knowing a pop-culture reference." John drained his tea and disappeared into he kitchen. Furious, Sherlock turned back to his browser and refreshed the news-site.

_There - murder._

Lukis, a journalist. Found dead in a locked room, no sign of breaking and entering. _Yes._ A lightning-brief grin flickered over Sherlock's face before he bent over the screen, a spider on the Web spinning search-strings. John called goodbye and there was the click of the front door, but Sherlock didn't raise his head.

_Ha. There's the connection, Sebastian. Murderers. Much more interesting than vandals._

When he heard the door open on John's return, he repeated his request for a pen to take notes. John's voice was upbeat as he joked that Sherlock hadn't even noticed he was gone.

Sherlock blinked. Of course he noticed. It was the time in between when John wasn't there that he failed to notice. John's mood was much improved. He stepped towards the fireplace and inspected his face, lifting his chin and turning his face this way and that. Sherlock watched peripherally. _Stance: broad, shoulders squared. Postulate: Pleased with his appearance. Conclusion: flirtation or self-affirmation._

"I went to see about a job at that surgery," John said.

Employment. Dull. Redundant. Feign interest.

"Great. She's great."

She?

Sherlock felt a brief draught. Perhaps John hadn't closed the door properly.

John corrected his slip a touch awkwardly. Sherlock gazed at him, brows knit.

_/ not again! / last one was persistent / John lacks attention? / he needs / I need - / distract / ! /_

He tilted his head to the laptop. "He's killed another one." There, that should excite John's interest. The case would keep them both busy, and make John unavailable to the mysterious 'she.'

Sherlock swallowed back the pleased tone in his voice ('Murder is serious, Sherlock! Don't be a ghoul.' 'Says the man who giggled at a crime scene.' 'Oh, shut it.'), and stood up.

"Come on, John. Not a moment to lose."

 

****

 

Fuck, fuck, buggery FUCK. John stood with head lowered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he waited for the custody sergeant to finish up the charge sheet for his ASBO. The rapid fluctuations between highs and lows today were giving him a headache.

It'd been months since he'd woken up in such a good mood. _Might have known better._

There was that thing about the Beatles this morning. _The bloody experiment in driving me mad ongoing, apparently. Thought he was done with that._

Then John had his job interview - and God that felt good, having proper employment again.

The day had been non-stop since then. A jolly little trip to Scotland Yard to watch Sherlock brow-beat Dimmock, then onto to Lukis' flat. At West Kensington Library, John was the one to find the second set of symbols. Sherlock had stared in silence at the proof positive of the connection between the vandals and murder victims, mouth turned down before whirling away, declaring an urgent need for tea and nicotine patches back at Baker Street.

Sherlock's 'consultation' behind the museum with that _(punk-bastard-ARSE!)_ Raz had led John here: the police station, with no Sherlock to back him up. Caught holding the bag - of spray paint - under the glare of two prim-mouthed Community Support Officers while Sherlock and Raz legged it. _Second time in two days you've run off on me, Sherlock._

He began rubbing the tense muscles at the base of his skull as the officer finished up the paperwork. "Now, your court date, Mr. Watson..."

"Doctor," said John in a last hopeless attempt to appear an upstanding citizen. The officer smiled knowingly.

"Doctor. You're required to appear next Tuesday at the assigned time..."

John took the paper, tight-lipped. How was he going to explain to Dr. Sawyer? He'd been lucky this morning. He'd only gone 'round to submit his CV, and was amazed he'd walked out with a job. If John was convicted, it was going to show up in every Criminal Bureau Record background search run on him. John had to tell her. He would need Tuesday off. She'd want to know why and then...

He pictured it as he marched from the station. 'So... doctor, clarinettist and charged criminal?' That spark of interest she'd shown in him doused under doubt. Ex-Army doctor delinquent.

He had to explain. He needed this job. But how did one explain the vortex that was Sherlock? How to justify why he continued working alongside the madman?

_You are in trouble, John Watson. Neck-deep and sinking fast._

He rammed his hands into his coat pockets and walked. _Should have warned me to run. I don't have eyes in the back of my head._

And to think that the morning had started so well.

Here he had this job offer - a life-line, a chance to set boundaries and maintain his integrity from the all-pervading world of Sherlock and the work. Now?

_I'm going to lose this job before I've even started._

  
  


_****_

  
  


_Ah, good. John's back._

Sherlock stood in in front of his collage over the fireplace, eyes flicking between the book of symbolism in his hand and the photos of the graffiti. Nothing correlated. Not yet. Connections, he need more information.

Distantly he heard John's steps stop abruptly and then begin pacing back and forth, his voice rising. Sherlock felt a flicker of annoyance - the tone was interrupting his thought flow. Really, he'd thought John would have understood that he was meant to run when confronted by police officers. But there had been no point in turning back and wasting time better spent on the case arguing with officials. John's voice spiked and Sherlock winced.

"Me, Sherlock! In court, on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_/ criminal damage-record? / not important / take care of it / exchange favours with Lestrade / Lukis the journalist / must be key there / Dimmock / ugh / send John /_

Sherlock was aware that Dimmock was no tolerant Lestrade. Better to send John to look over the impounded items at Scotland Yard. John got on with everyone.

John began to remove his jacket and Sherlock whirled around and began to shove him back in, muttering instructions all the while. Sherlock guided the complaining John to the door with a hand resting on the small of his back. _Warm._ The heat of John's body burned against Sherlock's guilty palm. _Not now!_ He pushed John out as though he were a dangerous device that required distance from himself.

_Go on, John. Do this, you are essential to me. You are the only one I trust with my work._

 

****

 

Back at New Scotland Yard, John waited while Dimmock sorted through an evidence box with a frown between his brows.

Dimmock, you have no idea how much I am behind any slander about Sherlock you might utter right now. Bloody arse didn't even listen when I told him about the ASBO. Doesn't he know what it means for a doctor to have criminal record?

"He's an arrogant sod," said Dimmock. John blinked.

"Oh. That was mild. People say a lot worse than that." _Including me today._

Dimmock handed him Lukis' diary and John leafed through it. Boarding pass receipt, on Zhouang airlines. Chinese. He exchanged a commiserating smile with Dimmock and took his leave. Right. Time to show Sherlock he didn't need to deflect John with a pointless errand while he pursued the case.

He was Sherlock's partner. At the very least.  
  


****  
  


Sherlock's mind was whirling as he walked along Shaftesbury Avenue. The receipts that Amanda, Van Coon's assistant had shown him had sparked off speculation. He talked aloud as he looked about.

"...bought your lunch here, on way to the station. Where did the cab drop you off?" He wished John was here, commenting or asking his inane rhetorical questions that often set off new pathways of deduction burning through Sherlock's mind.

Ridiculous. He didn't need him here. It was a weakness, this _need_ for John's praise. Half-distracted, he turned about and bumped heavily into someone. John.

_John!_

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here," Sherlock began, words tumbling out, desperate to explain, waiting for John's admiring smile. _Frailty of genius,_ said a small voice inside. John's brows furrowed, his mouth open. "He came here, somewhere in this street. I don't know where," Sherlock admitted grudgingly.

John nodded at a shop across the street and Sherlock frowned. "How can you tell?"

John held up Van Coon's diary, pleased with himself and turned to lead the way.

"Oh," said Sherlock, deflated.

The shop was all wrong. The air of neglect, the dust overlying objects that hadn't been moved in ages. Paw-waving Maneki-neko in their golden ranks ticked, stirring motes in the air. The lucky cats did not appear to be drawing in any business at all. But both Lukis and Van Coon, came here, both back from trips to China. Suitcases with mysterious contents. A shop with little business as a drop-off point.

Smuggling.

The shape of the case was taking form in Sherlock's mind as he pulled down a dusty statuette of a Xian warrior. Behind Sherlock could hear John denying the need for a Lucky Cat for his wife. _John looks like husband material._

Relationships. They would take up John's time, draw him from the work. From Sherlock.

_Focus._

"Sherlock," said John in an 'A ha!' tone, and directed his attention to the looping script on the bottom of the tea cup he held. "Exactly the same as the cipher."

Flags of irritation burned on Sherlock's cheekbones as he turned away abruptly. First the library, then the diary - now this? How was it that John had ended up leading the way? Annoying to be shown up like that. Of course the script was the suzhou numerical system. A code - but from whom?  
  


_****_

 

_Fucking arse._ John ground his teeth as he paced outside the narrow door leading to the flat belonging to Soo Lin Yao. John had scarcely got three mouthfuls down during lunch as he listened to Sherlock, smiling at the man's cleverness, before Sherlock had leapt up and left John to cover the bill.

_Couldn't it have waited two bloody minutes, Sherlock?_

And now Sherlock had gone, bloody left him behind while John jittered nervously outside looking around for a police officer to hove into view. Would round off the day perfectly. Accessory to breaking and entering. He felt exposed.

He rang the bell. "Think maybe you could let me in this time?" He grimaced. Deja vu. "Can you not keep doing this, please?" Partners. Colleagues, his arse. Dogsbody. Grunt. Deluded idiot trailing the blazing meteor of destruction called Sherlock. For what?

_He'll never let you in._

His throat tightened. _It's pitiful, this futile attraction. Just deluding yourself, thinking about him._

"Any time you want to include me!" he roared through the letter box, but there was no reply. As usual.

"I'm wasting my breath," he told the sky, pacing. _Because he's the great Sherlock Holmes. I can't compete, and he's all about the work. Married, he told me._

In marriage there could be only two participants, and John was not one of them.

  
  


****

  
  


Sherlock rolled over, tugging the strangling scarf free from his abused throat with a gasp. _Mistake._ He was surprised to be waking up at all - why hadn't the intruder tried to end Sherlock's life? He'd been in the perfect position. _Should have known someone was in the flat._

He heard a thump as John kicked at the front door. Idiot. Sherlock hadn't wanted to break into the flat with John in tow. After his protests about the ASBO, Sherlock didn't think John would want to be involved in anything illegal, but if he kept up that racket it would bring unwanted attention. Sherlock winced and touched his sore throat. Shouldn't have smirked after he'd let the fire-escape ladder swing up after him while John had called his name in disbelief. Purely petty, his own desire to take the lead back in the case.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, black flower.

_/ folded paper / lotus / Buddhist symbol of divine birth / black / such drama! / origami / Japanese aesthetic / obvious / why? / misdirection? / Chinese connection obvious /_

Sherlock stood and swayed, straightening his clothes. Well, that had gone badly. A mistake. He ought to have brought John after all.

He rubbed the back of his neck where the attacker's fingers had scraped. No open wounds, possible bruising - good. He touched his throat and tried a hum, but it squeaked. He coughed. Best not to let John know.

Sherlock felt he'd played the fool enough for enough day.

  
  


  
  


****

  
  


The discovery of more 'death' symbols - these meant for for Soo Lin Yao - had led them back to Raz the street tagger. More messages, hidden amongst the street graffiti like trees in a forest. When John had brought up the court date (again!), Sherlock barked at him to _please_ forget about it _. I'll take care of it, couldn't John understand the simplest things?_ John had glared at him but gone off with instructions to look for more of the painted clues.

John found them. Again, John led the way in the case, hurrying Sherlock along by the rail tracks to a brick wall. Blank. Freshly painted. John's face fell.

"Someone didn't want me to see it," muttered Sherlock. No. No, they were getting so close! Sherlock grasped John's head, ignoring the sensation of fine hair slipping through his gloved fingers. John yelped, eyes wide. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and Sherlock's gaze dropped for a split second to the moisture left behind.

Sherlock shook himself. No, too intimate. He needed to focus. He needed _John_ to focus. He moved his hands to grasp John's arms and slowly circled them. "Can you remember the pattern? How much can you remember?" As Sherlock chanted, John's alarmed expression shifted to one of annoyance. He jerked out of Sherlock's grasp and pulled out his phone.

Sherlock looked at the yellow symbols captured in the mobile's flash, and found himself unable to meet John's gaze. John had surprised him - no.

_Be honest. You underestimated him._

"We done here?" asked John. Sherlock jerked his chin down. "Good. Let's go home."

They set off together along the tracks, Sherlock staying behind just a half-step, the better to observe. John's expression was pinched. His normal gait was just a touch off, shoe dragging slightly. Tired. _Unhappy,_ thought Sherlock.

"John," he began, uncertain. "You were - I appreciate your assistance today. It was useful."

John eyed him sidelong. "Thanks. I'm here to be of use. I know your work is important." His tone sounded off on the last sentence. He yawned. "Still, it'll be nice."

"What will?"

"When I start at the surgery. No more all-nighters for me."

Sherlock's skin crawled, as though a strong breeze blew against his neck. He tugged his collar up more firmly.

He hailed a cab when they reached the main road and they climbed in. Around them the city was turning a ghostly grey with the approaching day. John was quiet and when Sherlock glanced at him he saw that he had fallen asleep, head lolling against the window. John's hand rested against the seat, fingers slack.

_Must take better care of your doctor._

His life been so much simpler before, when there had only been the work. Difficult to focus on this case, when there was a thread of concern twining throughout about John. Unsurprising that Sherlock had been off his game today. But had it been better without John?

Inconclusive. He needed more data, and for that he needed John.

Sherlock kept his eyes on that half-curled hand the remainder of the journey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next section written and ready, but have been having issues with the formatting turning strange on me - spent over two hours fixing it. If you see a problem, (spelling counts as a problem), please let me know.
> 
> And now I have cheerfully trampled all over The Blind Banker, mangling and flattening it to suit my needs, be of good cheer. Though the next chapter is going to be another one where Sherlock and John take two steps forward and a long step back, their travails are almost finished. The next chapter takes us to the start of Friday, the last day of TBB case, and thus we are drawing to a close. I apologise for any dismay my delays in writing the last few chapters and the handling of their coming together have caused. Trust me. I am quite as anxious as you to get Sherlock and John to the sticking point.


	40. Scorpionis et Ranae, or The Scorpion and the Frog - Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Close enough to touch. Almost there.

**Thursday March 25th**  
  
  
The threads of the case were spinning together, twining stronger and more complete in Sherlock's deft hands.  
  
 _Soo Lin Yao / disappearance / killer-smugglers looking for something / Chinese goods / Van Coon / Lukis / vandals / symbols /_  
  
The next thread to pluck - Soo Lin Yao and her ability to read sanzhou, but who was nowhere to be found. Ergo she knew the code. That her life was in danger was evident, but Sherlock needed to know her connection to the killers.  
  
A weak lever, using the threat hanging over a young woman's life to keep John with him as they visited the museum, but Sherlock employed it. In another era, John would have been a chivalrous knight rescuing damsels; in spite of his exhaustion he came. The shining Zisha pots in their glass case had told Sherlock all he needed to know about Soo Lin's bolt hole.  
  
"Shouldn't we call the police? If her life is in danger?" Andy, Soo Lin's coworker in the Chinese Antiquities department looked worried, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. John opened his mouth but Sherlock cut him off.  
  
"Would do more harm than good. She's terrified and has found what she feels is a place of safety. If you bring in a crowd of police, she may run again. It would expose her, not to mention possibly attract the attention of those seeking her. I only want to talk."  
  
The case was becoming so interesting. There was time enough later to bring the police in.  
  
After some hesitation Andy agreed. John's expression was sceptical, but he said nothing as Sherlock arranged for them to enter the museum after hours.  
  
  
****  
  
  
When they got back to Baker street, John made himself a sandwich and took himself off for a long nap, saying he needed the rest if they were to be running about London half the day again. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand before leaving again on a short errand.  
  
By the time John wandered downstairs again several hours later, the display was ready. A Chinese acupuncture chart that displayed the meridians of chi throughout the body was tacked to the cupboard door next to the fridge. Pins had been thrust in at various points in a pattern that Sherlock had often re-traced at night alone in his room.  
  
"Are you making tea, John?" Sherlock asked. He was bent over his microscope in the kitchen.  
  
"You're sitting right there. Lazy."  
  
"Busy. Observe the difference."  
  
Behind he heard the rush of water as John filled the kettle. A moment of quiet passed. Sherlock picked up another slide and placed it under the microscope.  
  
"I didn't know you had an interest in Eastern medicine, Sherlock." John's voice was as mild as his expression when Sherlock looked up.  
  
"I would think the study of how body systems are viewed in other cultures would be of interest to any man of science," Sherlock said, stressing the last word.  _Meaning you, John. Look closer._  
  
"Huh. I thought it would be..." John wrinkled his nose. "Extraneous information for you. Something to delete."  
  
"Clearly it isn't." Sherlock watched as John turned back to the chart and tapped it, forefinger running up from pin to pin.  
  
 _lateral malloleus, peronaus flexor, biceps femoris, vastus lateralis, iliac crest, to the obliques, back to the latissimus dorsi..._  
  
Sherlock made a concerted effort to control his breathing. Hardwin had said those words their first call, describing a pleasurable path on Sherlock's body that led - unexpectedly - to fulfillment. Sherlock remembered each Latin phrase clearly, and now he watched as John traced the path with a finger.  _Will he remember? Control yourself._  Sherlock lowered his gaze again to the eyepiece of his microscope. He heard John tsk! and looked up once again.  
  
John pulled out the pin that had pierced the lower lip on the anatomical drawing. "No acupuncture point there," he said, and thrust it home just under the nose. "An old girlfriend was into it. Me, I never saw the point - had enough needles jammed into me in medical school to last a lifetime. Is this to do with a case?" He turned back to Sherlock and paused at whatever he saw on Sherlock's face.  
  
Sherlock waited.  _Wrong question, John! Use my methods!_  John's brows began to go up. He crossed his arms.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said finally. "Research. A cold case." It was true enough.

 

Which was the wrong answer, apparently, as John's expression shuttered. He turned back to the cupboards and pulled out two mugs. "You want dinner before we go out?"  
  
"Not while I'm on a case."  
  
"Fine. I'll get a takeaway, then." John handed him a mug with the teabag still in and left the kitchen, the breeze of his passing raising goosebumps on Sherlock's arms.  
  
  
****  
  
  
"John Watson, meet Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock had a half-smile on his face, arms folded behind his back.  
  
  
Considering how well she had secreted herself, Sherlock should be pleased with himself, John thought. Never leaving the museum, creeping out at night to make tea in her beloved Zisha pots? Amazing. John smiled at both her and Sherlock. Well done.   
  
  
Soo Lin Yao wasn't a small woman, but she looked crumpled as she told the story of how she came to be in hiding. Her life had been one reversal of fortune after another.  
  
  
"You knew him well, back when you were living in China?" John asked.  
  
"Oh, yes," Soo Lin said, voice calm as still water. "He is my brother."  
  
John felt sick. He'd seen enough fanatics during the war, but this? To threaten your own sister with death?  
  
Sherlock shifted in his seat, ready with a new question when there was a click. The lights went out. Soo Lin's tranquillity shattered. "He's here. He has found me."  
  
Sherlock leapt up and ran from the room.  
  
"Sherlock!" John shouted. The idiot was weapon-less, heedless as an arrogant sod of a consulting detective who believed himself invulnerable. Did he even know where to find the intruder? John cursed under his breath, before Army-instinct kicked in. He man-handled the unresisting Soo Lin out of the line of sight of the doors. Gunshots rang out.  
  
_Sherlock!_   
  
"I've got to go and help him. Bolt the door after me," he whispered to Soo Lin. And he left her, running through the echoing marble of the museum.  _Sherlock Sherlock damn it don't get yourself killed Sherlock!_   
  
There was only silence. He whirled, listening. And heard a single shot. From where he'd come from.  _Oh no. No._   
  
He ran, heart in his throat. Soo Lin was lying still, a dark pool spreading around her, face serene. John breathed in guilt, and exhaled in a near-sob. 

 

 _Oh God._   
  
  
****  
  
  
John's teeth were set as they rode in the taxi to Scotland Yard. He wouldn't look at Sherlock. Living, breathing Sherlock.  
  
Choices. In retrospect, John made the wrong one and he wasn't sure if he could ever forgive himself. How long would it be before he was able to see any dead young woman without mourning a wasted life? There was no resemblance between this woman and his old friend and comrade-at-arms in Afghanistan, but he thought of Lizzy McKane. Lizzy's laughter and life had been snuffed out in one roadside bomb. In some ways, Soo Lin's death was worse, coming from the hands of her brother.  
  
One part of his mind was sick with futile guilt.  _She was alone, I could have stayed, protected her. She didn't even cry out._  The battle-trained, doctor part of his mind was detached  _(civilian casualty, left in an unsecured location with multiple entry points - death result of one gunshot wound)._   
  
Another, smaller part of his mind said,  _if not caring is what the work entails, then sod it._   
  
He should never have let Sherlock convince him to come without the added back-up of the police. Dimmock wasn't a fool, whatever Sherlock thought - he would have come.  
  
Sherlock was alive. Soo Lin was dead. John's delirious relief over the first fact made his guilt over the second burn all the more.  
  
  
****  
  
  
Sherlock held himself still as John shouted at Dimmock about finding killers before they gunned down another victim. John was upset, as was Sherlock. With the death of Soo Lin, the easiest key to deciphering the code was gone. When John moved into Dimmock's personal space with fists bunched, Sherlock stepped between them. There was no chance that Sherlock was done with this mystery, and they needed the detective. The key was in a book, and the books were in the victims' flats. All he needed was to prove to Dimmock a connection existed between all three victims.  
  
_Smugglers / organized crime / tattoos / victims / obvious / show you the tattoos /_

 

He looked over his shoulder at John, who was crossing and uncrossing his arms, brow still creased. Back in the museum, John had come after him. Foolish leaving their sole informant alone, but - John heard the gunshots and followed.  
  
_John has killed for me. John ran into enemy fire for me._ Would he do it for just anyone? Could John be that altruistic?  
  
_He is the question to which I cannot find the answer. Yet I could spend ages looking for the answer and not be bored. Years. Epochs._   
  
As Dimmock shrugged into his overcoat, Sherlock turned to John. His eyes flicked over John, measuring, analysing.  _Anger / guilt / tension /._ He should - he  _wanted_ to help John. Sherlock's hand rose, settled on John's shoulder and gave a brief squeeze.  _Comrade, not colleague. Indispensable._   
  
John's eyes lifted to his, startled. Sherlock's lips twitched up into what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but within  something was cracking, his chest burning. John was essential. He couldn't lose him. Sherlock had to do something more, he had to bend or he would shatter.  
  
"All right?" asked Sherlock.  
  
John blew a breath, the tension easing. His arm twitched, hand half-rising as though to cover Sherlock's before it dropped away. His answering smile was pained.  
  
"Not really. But I'll do." He paused. "Thanks for asking. Let's get this finished. Stop this maniac."  
  
_A true partner. No other._   
  
Sherlock's fingertips flexed, pressed into John's solid warmth once more before releasing him.  
  
  
****  
  
  
Smugglers of Chinese antiquities, killers, codes and now - books. John watched in dismay as the police constables carried in carton after carton of books. "And they say no one reads any more." He stepped back as boxes were stacked three-high in the living room. "Well, this shouldn't take too long."  
  
After Sherlock brusquely dismissed Dimmock, John sighed. "Sherlock, he was offering to  _help._  Don't you think we could use a hand with," he gestured broadly, "- all this?"  
  
"He'd be in the way. I work best alone." Sherlock was opening up a box. "Your presence excepted."  
  
John blinked. This was odd. As horrible as Sherlock had been yesterday, today he was being nice. For a given value of nice, in a Sherlock way. "Right. Okay then. I'll take notes?" Sherlock made a noise of agreement as he paged through a thick hard-back.  
  
For a time they worked in silence broken only by the flutter of pages and the scratch of John's pen. The stacks of discards by John's chair grew higher and unsteadier, and he got up with a groan to shift them to the couch where they immediately fell over and fanned like a pack of cards.  
  
He muttered an oath under his breath, then raised his voice. "I'm going to make a cuppa. You want one?"  
  
  
Sherlock growled something but John pressed him. "We've been going hard at it all day. You'll drink it and thank me, or I'll do something drastic."  
  
  
Sherlock's head lifted at that. "What will you do?"  
  
  
John smiled. "That's for me to know and you to deduce. Seriously, Sherlock. You need it. Doctor's orders."  
  
  
"Oh, well then. If you order it," said Sherlock, but his lips quivered as he opened another book.  
  
  
In the kitchen, John made two mugs. He added sugar to one and thrust it at Sherlock. "Here. Milk's gone off."  
  
  
Sherlock scanned the page he was currently open to. "'The.' Approximately thirty-five percent of the first words on the fifteenth page are 'the.' Ah, my tea. Thank you, Doctor." He tossed the book down and took the mug, fingers brushing John's, the brief touch and Sherlock's uncharacteristically droll tone sending a small shock through John.  
  
  
"Definite articles. So boring," John quipped. "But you must prefer them to the indefinite article, a logician like yourself." He was standing too close, holding his own mug as though he'd forgotten what he was meant to do with it. Sherlock was watching him, and the awareness of their proximity was playing havoc with his resolve.  _Stop it,_  he told himself.  _No good, he doesn't do relationships_ . But that stern reminder didn't negate the increase of his pulse, the urge to take the mug of tea back, set it on the mantelpiece and press his mouth against the column of throat exposed by the purple shirt. 

 

John coughed, and clinked his mug against Sherlock's instead. "Cheers. To code-breaking." He took a quick gulp and turned away from that too-keen gaze before Sherlock could see anything incriminating. From the corner of his eye he could see that Sherlock was standing stock-still, tea untasted, still watching.  
  
  
During the next few hours, Sherlock walked over several times to place promising books next to John's elbow. On occasion he leant over John's shoulder to read his notes, disregarding personal space in his usual fashion. John swallowed when the woodsy scent of Sherlock's pricey cologne wafted over him. He carried on writing when Sherlock planted an arm on the desk, caging John with his body. But Sherlock did nothing, said nothing other than making an acerbic comment on the abysmal handwriting of the medical profession, to which John tartly replied.  
  
  
The books, for the most part, were a motley collection - both Lukis and Van Coon had a taste for popular novels, and a number of travel books of Asia - unsurprising considering their double lives. But as the night wore on, John noticed some of the books being set down by Sherlock were different. A collection of erotic stories. A coffee-table book on the Beatles, one of which had the dust-cover bookmarking a page about A Day in the Life. Gray's anatomy - but wasn't this copy Sherlock's own? Yes, there were notes written in the margins in his sloping script. A book about the experiences of British troops in Afghanistan. John jumped to his feet after that was slapped down next to him and escaped to the bathroom.  
  
  
Within, he pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.  _What the hell, Sherlock?_  John was not a genius when it came to connecting the dots, but this was going too far. If it wasn't some coincidence, that is, that all those books had some connection to things they discussed in a different lifetime as Hardwin and Hugh. God, if this was some deliberate attempt on Sherlock's part to provoke some... some new  _data_  from John, he was going to go spare. Never mind the ASBO, he was going to commit murder.  
  
  
John splashed some water on his face.  _Keep it together. You thought the experiment was done. It's been nearly three months and he's never brought it up. Let's play this out, and see what happens._   
  
  
When John opened the door, he yelped. Sherlock was standing with his hand outstretched for the knob. "Sherlock! What are you doing?"  
  
  
Sherlock eyed him. "I drank a large beverage under orders. Need I make the connection for you?"  
  
  
"What, and you were just going to barge in?" John sputtered. Sherlock only lifted a brow.  
  
  
"You were washing your face."  
  
  
John bit back a comment about listening at doors and glared. "Fine. It's free."  
  
  
With a murmured word of thanks,  _(thanks! I've had more 'thank you's from Sherlock today than in our entire time living together!)_ Sherlock pushed through the narrow door past John before he could move. His body brushed against John's, the cotton shirt warm against John's shoulder. Oh  _God. That wasn't his thigh sliding over your hip. Ignore that, didn't happen._  That couldn't have been deliberate. Could it? He was going insane. The door clicked shut, shoving him out. John crossed the room collapse into the desk chair. Shaking his head, he reached for the new book that Sherlock had stacked, and paused.  
  
  
'Collins' Book of British Birds.' He drew the book to him. One page was dog-eared. He ran a finger over the fold, heart hammering. _Right. He could handle this._ . He opened the book to the eighty-eighth page.  _Falco subbuteo. Falco peregrinus. Falco columbarius._ John's mind flashed back to their second call, the talk of Saker falcons and then... that fantasy, that wild, improbable, arousing fantasy.  
  
  
_He's doing my head right in._   
  
  
He heard the bathroom door open and flicked the pages to page fifteen, word one. He scribbled 'flight' without even looking at the pad. He heard Sherlock open another carton and the ruffle of paper.  _Don't do it. Don't take the bait._   
  
  
"British birds. Unusual choice for a financier like Van Coon." He winced. Too late. 

 

"A gift, judging from the inscription in the front cover." Sherlock's voice was unconcerned.  
  
  
"Oh. But it's dog-eared. Maybe he had an interest in bird-watching?"  _Oh, god, shut up, you sound inane, and Sherlock will only -_   
  
  
"What page?"  
  
  
John paused. He turned around in his seat. He had to face Sherlock for this. Sherlock was looking at him, finger marking the place in the Dan Brown novel he held.  
  
  
"Falcon species," John said. Sherlock looked at the book he held and put it aside, reaching for another.  _He's not looking at me. It's nothing, stupid to have expected something. Either he's not interested or..._   
  
  
"Only five species of falcon native to Great Britain. Though there are sightings of rarer species."  
  
  
_Ah ha._  "Yes, I've heard that. Sorry." John licked his lips. "Sorry, but I wouldn't have thought it would be an area that interested you. I mean, birds of Britain. Not much connection to your work, I'd think."  
  
  
Sherlock closed his book and set it aside, plucking two more out. "You would be wrong. Someone once told me a bit on the topic. It was fascinating." He still wasn't looking at John, face smooth, seemingly distracted.  _He's doing that thing, pretending he's humouring me with this vacuous conversation, but he keeps talking._   
  
  
"This... was it for a case?"  
  
"Not exactly," said Sherlock. John bit back a snarl.  
  
_No, not exactly a case, was it, the way you had me on and made me care, only to tell me it was a grand experiment! I was falling in love with you, you arse!_   
  
"But we met indirectly through odd circumstances," Sherlock continued. "Our connection was made under pseudonyms, in fact, due to the nature of the person's work."  
  
John froze, mind whirling.  _What? What are you saying?_  He swallowed. "You never knew - never found out who it was?"  
  
Sherlock slammed a book shut and tossed it aside with an impatient sound. "I recognised their voice when we happened to meet sometime later." John looked hard at him. Sherlock's face was as composed as ever. It was difficult to tell in the dimness - was he paler than normal?  
  
"That would be strange," said John. It had been, at the time - John had felt exposed. And then furious and exhilarated by turns. "Running into someone like that. Must have been awkward for you."  
  
"Not exactly. But though I do prefer straightforward relations, I know from my work that there are times when it is inadvisable to speak out."  
  
"Dangerous, you mean."  _As in, fist-meeting-your-face dangerous._  "Undercover stuff, like the police."  
  
Sherlock shrugged, and shifted an empty carton aside. "There was no threat to me."  
  
John bit his tongue.  _No, of course there wasn't._  "So?"  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"You're not a shrinking violet, Sherlock, I've heard you talk, you had no problem outing Anderson's affair the first crime scene we went to." John fought to keep his tone relaxed. "So why didn't you say anything to this person, if there was no danger?"  
  
Sherlock straightened and looked at John directly for the first time. His eyes flickered. His mouth opened, closed, then thinned out. Finally he spoke. "We had first spoken under pseudonyms. Meeting for the first time in public, I couldn't be sure the person wanted me to acknowledge our former interactions. It was probable that exposure would cause problems for the one involved." He met John's gaze. "Both the circumstances of our meeting, further association and my observations of their reactions persuaded me to do otherwise."  
  
_Oh._   
  
"Oh," said John.  _And so all this time - you didn't want to bring it up? That's... that's just stupid, Sherlock. But I didn't bring it up either so - hang on. You idiot, call yourself a genius? No. Think, John. Don't say anything before you think._   
  
"I guess that makes sense. Huh," John said. He turned away before Sherlock could formulate a response and picked up his pen. He opened a book, wrote, and stacked it neatly. After a moment he heard Sherlock pick up another tome, open it, and then a loud thump! as it was flung down. 

 

It did make a certain kind of twisted sense. Sherlock was just the person to out John's job as a phone sex line worker in front of Stamford and the world and not think there was a thing wrong with doing so - except he hadn't. But if he had exposed John, then... then John would have gone for his throat and after a leisurely throttle, demanded an apology. He was only human, after all. But...  
  
If Sherlock had said something, then the whole experiment fiasco would have come up. John still wanted to know what Sherlock had meant by mucking John's head around for a social experiment.  
  
_Sherlock doesn't apologise, you know that. He has to, I need to hear it, but..._   
  
John muffled a groan and rubbed his eyes. Christ, he was so tired, he couldn't think straight. What time was it, anyway?  
  
Where was he? They had shagged - well, they'd got each other off over a phone line. Sherlock had manipulated John, and then when John was down, had told him what he'd done and expected John to be pleased. They'd had a spectacular row about trust issues, and John had fought back the only way he could - by cutting Sherlock off.  
  
So, all that aside, Sherlock thought that John's reaction to being recognised, much less recognised as a phone sex operator, was sufficient reason not to speak? John cocked his head.  _Well, when you put it that way. Oh, and the potential for my violent reaction. Let's not forget that._   
  
_So._  So Sherlock was an idiot. They had lived together for months now, and John had waited and waited. Now it seemed that Sherlock had been the one waiting. For John to speak first. Why?  
  
John opened book after book, taking notes. He sighed, then started when Sherlock dropped another stack next to his chair.  
  
"Have you come up with anything?" Sherlock's eyes moved from the note paper to John's face.  
  
_What?_  Belatedly John shook himself. Case. The work. "I don't see any connection yet." He muffled a yawn and saw Sherlock's eyes dart to the hand covering his mouth. Oh. Testing, he rubbed his mouth, and sighed. The flare of Sherlock's nostrils was minuscule, but there. "I'm knackered though. How are we doing?"  
  
"Not much longer," said Sherlock and plucked the paper away, turning back to his cartons.  
  
Not an accident then, those little touches. And the good manners. Why now?  _I guess even Sherlock Holmes has limits. Though I'll have to ask him what he meant about being 'married to his work...'_   
  
With a flash of annoyance, John realised he'd been played again - Sherlock had placed the ball firmly in John's court.  
  
_It's up to me, after all that? Sod that, I'm not the one who needs to bend here. He has to apologise. I won't settle for less, I deserve at least that. John Watson, if you give in on this, you may as well kiss your self-respect good-bye. Go carefully here... God, I'm tired._  If John knew one thing, it was that conversations like this should never happen when at least one party was so exhausted he was verging on incoherent.  
  
"This person," John said slowly. "The one with a fake name. What do you think would have happened if you'd said you recognised him when you met?"  
  
There was a throbbing moment before Sherlock spoke. "I never said it was a man."  
  
John clenched his jaw. "For the sake of simplicity. What could he do?"  
  
"Sever our acquaintance." Sherlock's reply was fast, flat.  
  
"That would be bad? If he cut you off?" Sherlock said nothing, and John scooted around to look at him. Sherlock was thumbing through the book with studied care, his shoulders tense, face mask-like.  
  
_He's on edge,_  John realised.  _I think... He cares that much? Well. Let's see._ Heart pounding, he asked, "Are you sure?"  
  
Sherlock's head lifted. John went on, "Someone once told me it was better to be truthful right from the start. So." He cleared his throat. "Might be hard, but better late then never. You never know."  
  
Sherlock was staring. Gently, John added, "Think about it."  
  
With that, he turned away from the wide, spooked look in Sherlock's eyes and dragged another book towards him.  
  
  
**** 

 

**Friday, March 26th**   
  
  
_Think about it._  Rationality was Sherlock's domain, the blaze of intellect his pride and his solace. Think about it? How?  
  
If Sherlock had ever been this conflicted before in his life, he was incapable of recalling it. His reason was warring with anger and, yes, that was apprehension. Not fear. He'd admit that much. Score one for John.  _He's wily. I underestimated him - again. All my manoeuvring, and yet he's thwarted me._  Sherlock had a grudging admiration for how neatly John had turned the tables.  
  
He watched John, who had an elbow on the desk and was cushioning his cheek on his fist. The lamp light caught on the pale strands of hair, gold and dun and white. Time in England had faded John's tan, but above his collar the skin retained its golden hue.  
  
_Need I think?_  Rare that Sherlock let physical desires rule over him, but he was seized with the impulse to cross the room and run a finger beneath John's collar. Touch John's warmth, bend close and run his lips over that muscled neck, feel the textures of John's skin as they passed under his lips.  
  
John's head nodded, heavy with sleep. His fist slipped and he lifted his head with a jerk.  
  
_No. Must think._  John said he valued truth, intimated that all be laid bare. But there was a chance that John would take it badly. Unacceptable. To open up meant vulnerability. Trust. The possibility of rejection. Was that what he wanted?  
  
Y _es. Yes, I want what we shared before. More. I... I want him._  Sherlock clapped the book he was holding shut with a snap.  _This - this has destroyed my reasoning. John has ruined me. Appalling not to have seen this before. If he leaves, I will have lost something irreplaceable._  Sentiment. Need. Sherlock's jaw clenched.  
  
So, John still refused to speak. He hinted that forgiveness was possible. That would be good. Then they could carry on as before, but more, with real depth and understanding in their association.  
  
There was the physical side as well. He'd tried to ignore that flicker of attraction, barricaded it behind reason, excuses. For all the good it had done. What was John? More than mere usefulness at crime scenes, beyond being a voice in the dark on a phone line, better than any colleague. He was John, complete in and of himself. That was sufficient. Sherlock would enjoy exploring that territory with John, moments shared after a case, touches exchanged, bodies sliding against each other in the dark. He very much wanted to catalogue the noises John made when aroused and add them to all his mental audio files on John, compare them to the sounds he made during their telephone calls.  
  
John's head nodded again and Sherlock frowned at the sight.  _Take care of my doctor._  Well, now he had true incentive to get this case finished quickly, so he could devote some time to John. Once he'd brought up their shared history, that is. Sherlock would have to explain, most likely apologise in order to assuage John's feelings of outrage. Daunting thought.  
  
Sherlock put his hands on his hips and glared at the remaining boxes.  _John, you would force me to this point. I have done everything except write it out and still -!_  Sherlock cut off the thread of anger.  
  
He turned his head to speak when a peep-peep! sounded interrupted. John started, pulled back his cuff and checked his watch. Outside, the church bells were sounding the advent of the day. John put his face into his hands and groaned.  
  
"Oh, God. It's Friday. I have to start at the surgery today."  
  
_Pointless,_  thought Sherlock. "We're almost done."  
  
"I'm almost done  _in,_  Sherlock. Can't believe I was up all night."  
  
"Don't go, then," Sherlock suggested. John gave him a flat look that said everything. "Fine." Sherlock made a broad gesture indicating John was free to leave and didn't look at him as John brushed by to go to his room. Fuming, he heaved a carton nearer the desk and dropped into the seat, bending over the notes, eyes flickering.  _Focus, get this finished. Possible code word matches - tomorrow / at / look / where .../_   
  
He refused to look up when John came clattering back down. 

 

"Sherlock, have you seen my phone - oh, ta."  
  
Sherlock passed the phone from where it had been lying on the desk. He crossed out a word.  
  
"What happened?" John's voice.  
  
_/ door / imagine / I / .... what? /_  Sherlock looked up. John's eyes were fixed on his neck. "It's nothing."  
  
"You have a scratch and some kind of bruising coming up. Doesn't look any older than a day. So." John essayed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "What were you up to when I wasn't around?"  
  
"You were there. Soo Lin's flat."  
  
"It looks like someone's -"  
  
Sherlock cut him off. "It wasn't empty."  
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"Our mysterious killer was there." Sherlock lifted a shoulder. "Doesn't matter. I was unable to get any usable information concerning the encounter."  
  
John looked appalled. "Sherlock. Why didn't you say anything?"  
  
"He throttled me into unconsciousness with a scarf, left his flower calling card and escaped. The very nature of the attack precluded calling for help." Though he had, had gasped John's name in desperation. Sherlock regretted his folly in leaving John out, though he didn't think he would regret his last word being John's name.  _Interesting thought._   
  
John was shaking his head slowly. "You let me think you were fine, when you came out. You were attacked, and you didn't tell me?"  
  
"I'm telling you now," said Sherlock. "The injuries were, as you can see, minor. It didn't warrant medical attention and time was of the essence. I fail to see the problem here."  
  
"No, why would you? For God's sake, he could have crushed your larynx! You don't even know how long you were out! I'm a doctor, you should have told me! Better yet, let me into the flat. But not you, no. You work alone." John's voice tapered off. His tired eyes were angry, blinking rapidly. His mouth pressed thin.  
  
"If it's any consolation, I regret not bringing you in," Sherlock said.  _But I was annoyed with you and concerned about your ASBO. It was a mistake. What you do to me, John Watson, that I even admit my errors._   
  
John barked a laugh. "Yeah, well. That's something." He checked his watch again. "I have to go. We're not done with this yet, Sherlock." He pinned Sherlock with a burning look. "Not by a long shot."  
  
"Fine. We'll have a civilised discussion. When we're less busy tracking a killer, perhaps? They are still ahead of us, but I am getting closer." Sherlock brandished a book at John, who only grimaced and turned to go. The door slammed, and Sherlock turned back to the task at hand.  
  
  
****  
  
  
_That moron. Didn't let me in, almost got himself killed again, doesn't he care how that makes me feel? Knowing I was outside the door while he was being murdered? Feel like I'm being yanked about like a stupid dog on a lead, doesn't tell me anything, still won't confess... Assassins lying in wait, and that's not important?_   
  
John was half-way to the surgery, muttering to himself when the realisation struck him. He stopped mid-pavement and put a hand out to wall to steady himself, head down and dizzy.  
  
_Oh God. She died. Soo Lin's dead because we killed her. It's my fault, it's our fault, it's his.  
  
Sherlock's._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we leave the boys, at the start of the last day of the case of The Blind Banker.
> 
> Having ruined The Blind Banker, what more is there to do, except have Sherlock and John overcome their stubborn selves and admit they both have... well, trust issues is putting it mildly. 
> 
> I had debated putting up the last two chapters, knowing it was likely to drive people mad not seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but in the end at the advice of friends and the desire to let you know I hadn't died over the keyboard, I posted anyway.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far, and if there was a format or spelling issue or if you just want to comment about The Blind Banker and its weak plotting, feel free. I enjoyed using it, merely because it had space for writing in extra scenes. So much easier than ASiP


End file.
